


Writer's Block

by lookupkate



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, Agent!Greg, Enemies to Lovers, Eventual Happy Ending, Grumpy John, M/M, Novelist!Sherlock, Smut, Writer!AU, bad detective novels, detective novel circuit, idiots falling in love while hating each other, john writes bad detective stories, novelist!John, sherlock writes bad detective stories
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-29
Updated: 2016-02-20
Packaged: 2018-05-16 23:33:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 27,353
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5845237
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lookupkate/pseuds/lookupkate
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John has been writing detective novels for years, shitty, romance filled detective novels. That is until his last. Now he can't write a single chapter.</p><p>When Greg seats him next to an asshole genius he doesn't have the slightest idea that it is exactly what he needs.</p><p>_____</p><p>Greg was dating Sherlock's older bother. Was. Things transpired and they aren't anymore. </p><p>Mycroft loves Greg but can't admit it to himself, let alone Greg. With that admission off the table things fell apart. Can the coming together of John and Sherlock spur him into action and give him the guts to prove himself to Greg? </p><p>Duh. </p><p>Sad wanking and misunderstandings come first, though. Slow burn, but you already figured that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [yarnjunkie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/yarnjunkie/gifts), [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts), [DaringD](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DaringD/gifts), [Tardisqueen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tardisqueen/gifts), [Batik](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Batik/gifts), [MyriadProBold](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MyriadProBold/gifts), [JunkenMetel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/JunkenMetel/gifts), [Doctor_Tinycat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Doctor_Tinycat/gifts), [mafm](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mafm/gifts), [vixis](https://archiveofourown.org/users/vixis/gifts), [Darth_Nonie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Darth_Nonie/gifts), [PenelopeWaits](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PenelopeWaits/gifts), [Itsallgood](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Itsallgood/gifts), [Fandoms_Unite](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fandoms_Unite/gifts), [Le_Tabby_Cat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Le_Tabby_Cat/gifts), [JuJuBee (Marcy09)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marcy09/gifts).



John hated this sort of thing. The people there weren't ever really interested in his writing and he knew he was simply in the hall to fill his publisher's quota. It felt cheap. It felt like selling out.

"You knew you'd have to do this sort of thing when you signed the contract, John," his manager, Greg, said as he brought the obviously stressed writer a coffee.

"I just can't believe they want me here when no one is buying my books," John said with a grimace as he let the paper cup warm his hands.

"You're vey popular with a specific audience," Greg said, knowing from experience how touchy the man could be when in one of his near-depressive states.

"Women 35-60," John spat, "yes, I know."

Greg sighed and took the seat next to him on the small stage, pushing aside the placard for the second writer and leaning heavily on one shoulder. "We've talked about this before. If you want to go in a different direction that's fine. The boss just wants one more Detective Miller story out of you. She needs one last romance before we lose the reader base."

"It's been a year. I'm not sure I can do it. Do you have any idea how many times I've sat down to write and come up empty?" John asked, already exasperated that early in the day.

"So find some inspiration," Greg sighed. "Go on a date. Go to a club. Bloody hell, just get laid."

John shot him a look that said if he didn't back off he might end up with a bloody nose and Greg stood and crossed his arms. John let his head fall into his hands, embarrassed at his own anger, an anger that always seemed to be bubbling below the surface and attempting to scratch its way out.

"I'm sorry," he said, head not lifting and eyes fixed on the table. "I'm just tired."

"I know. Has the therapist prescribed anything to help you sleep?" Greg asked, letting his hands fall to his sides.

John snorted and shook his head. "She's useless. Told me to try writing about personal experiences to get the creative juices flowing, which by the way is a disgusting phrase on its own without the idiot insistence that I start a blog."

"Maybe you should-" Greg started, his mobile ringing loudly and cutting him off, to John's satisfaction. He answered it and then held his hand over the receiver. "Have to take this, it's head office."

John waved him away and promptly burned his tongue on his drink. Just another day in paradise.

_____

John was playing with the placard for the second writer, who was very much late, and ignoring the stack of books with his name on them in front of him, when the man walked up. He glanced over and looked between the placard and the man before holding it out.

"Sherlock Holmes?" he asked.

The tall man took the placard from John's hand with a snarl and sat in the chair hard enough for the wire and plastic thing to whinge.

"I suppose you're as thrilled as I am to be here," John said, sipping his coffee.

"I'm supposed to be at a conference on soil decomposition in Brisbane," Sherlock offered.

"And instead you have to sign books for uninterested readers," John replied, holding his hand out. "I'm John. John Watson."

"Yes, gathered as much," Sherlock said flatly.

"How did you-" John's voice cut out as Sherlock tapped his finger on the stack of books in front of them. He snickered and shook his head. "Yeah, sorry. I suppose these things get me a bit off my game."

"Now is where you try to get trivial information out of me until you feel like you know me and won't be uncomfortable sitting next to me for the next two weeks. We can skip all that if you like and I'll save you the trouble of realising I'm only pretending to have read your books and we can get straight to sitting in awkward silence for..." Sherlock looked at his watch and closed his eyes for a second before going on. "The next eighty-four hours."

John looked at him in shock before picking up his coffee and turning away from him, jaw clenching. Sherlock watched the action carefully, taking in the fact that John's left hand balled into a fist, and was surprised that he'd said all that without being assaulted. He'd assumed the best way to get out of the obligation would be to be injured by one of the other writers and to threaten to sue. Pity it hadn't worked.

_____

They sat next to each other without saying a word for the whole day. Sherlock watched somewhat impatiently as a slow trickle of readers came up to greet John. They were all women, most around middle age, and acted as if John were some handsome man they were secretly dating. They watched Sherlock out of the corner of their eye as he glared at them. It only occurred to sherlock later on that they might have thought him jealous.

"I'm heading out," John said, stirring Sherlock from his thoughts. "I suppose I'll see you tomorrow."

"You don't like your readers," Sherlock said, the no sequitur giving John pause.

"Sorry, what?" John asked, turning on his heel.

It was then that Sherlock thought perhaps he would get hit after all.

"You don't like your readers. Probably because they're all women and women are only interesting to you if they are your friends or your bed mates. Seeing as you have few friends and your bed mates don't last long I wonder if you like women at all."

"Look, I don't know where you got the idea that I don't like women-" John tried.

"You met each and every one of them with well hidden disdain," Sherlock interrupted, standing and taking a step towards John and tilting his head to the punch wouldn't hit his teeth or nose.

"Yeah, well, that had nothing to do with the fact that they're women," John said, nostrils flaring. "It had to do with the fact that I hate people in general. And might I add that you're no exception."

Sherlock's mouth opened and closed for a second before he cleared his throat and surprised himself for asking a question not mean to offend. "How can you be a doctor and hate people. Isn't hate against the Hippocratic oath?"

John cocked his head to the side and clenched his fists, this time out of confusion rather than anger. "Do you read my books?"

"No!" Sherlock spat defensively.

"Then how on earth do you know I used to be a doctor?" John asked, eyes narrowing.

"USED TO BE. Damn, there's always something. Don't you think the picture on your dust cover is a bit disingenuous then?" Sherlock asked, and then when John started to smile, "I inspected it while you were away at lunch."

John's smile fell and he sighed, leaning against the wall with his jacket under his arm. This man was argumentative but he was right about that. "It was Greg Lestrade's idea. I thought it was stupid but he said it would bring in more readers. It's a prop stethoscope I'm as wearing in the photo."

Sherlock swayed where he stood and watched John carefully. "You don't seem a man so quick to shift aside his morals."

"Things change," John replied.

"You mean you're broke," Sherlock said.

John frowned and his whole body stiffened before he swallowed and walked away. Sherlock watched him carefully, not sure exactly what he'd said wrong.

 


	2. Secretive Ways

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John wants to borrow a book and the boys meet later on, to both their surprise and dissatisfaction.

Sherlock stood there blinking for a while. He was confused. Not just at John's reaction, although he was starting to see how his words could have rubbed him the wrong way, but also at the fact that he was upset at himself for making the man unhappy. He usually had no inclination one way or the other when it came to people's happiness and the two of them hadn't got along anyhow so it didn't make sense.

When he decided to give it all up as folly and leave he managed to pass John and their shared agent on his way to the exit. He gave them a sharp nod and walked a bit faster, John's eyes seeming to follow him.

John did indeed watch as the double doors closed behind Sherlock before turning back to Greg to continue speaking. "So I was wondering if I could just take one of his books from the display."

"You want to read Sherlock Holmes's latest book?" Greg asked, looking taken aback.

"Why wouldn't I?" John asked, trying to cover the fact that he wasn't sure why he wanted to in the first place with verbal surety.

"Well...it's dry. All his work is. It reads like a textbook, to be honest."

John stood a bit stiffer and gripped his leg. "And how exactly do you explain my books to other people, Greg?"

"I didn't mean that his writing is-" Greg tried.

"I don't care, just, can I take the book or not?" John asked, sucking his teeth and frowning.

Greg sighed deeply and nodded, hoping to have the conversation end there. "Of course, John. Take a copy."

John bit his tongue and nodded once before heading back into the room to do just that. Greg watched him go and promised to buy himself a pint for managing two of the most difficult writers around without hitting one of them. It really was a feat, and with day one of the convention out of the way he needed time to think.

_____

Sherlock thought of John the whole way back to the street he was staying on, the tube shaking him nearly off his feet two times as the abrupt stops took him by surprise. He almost missed his stop but just managed to jump out the closing doors at the last second. He was shaken and unnerved and should have been pacing at home in his flat where he couldn't do things like run headlong into complete strangers.

"Do you mind?" the man in front of him yelped as he pushed into an overly crowded elevator.

"In fact, I do mind," Sherlock said, voice icy.

The man turned and stomped on Sherlock's foot angrily before looking up.

There they stood, face to face again, with Sherlock hoping up and down in pain and John's surprise causing his mouth to hang open.

"You stepped on my foot!" Sherlock screeched, ignoring the rest of the passengers.

"Yes, w-well you ran into me, and, and-" John stammered.

"That hurt!" Sherlock replied loudly, bottom lip wobbling.

"Well you should watch where you're going!" John said, uncomfortable with the fact that they were stuck in a confined space together.

"Or someone will assault me?" Sherlock spat indignantly.

"I didn't -" John began.

"You did! You stomped on my foot like a child and you aren't even sorry!" Sherlock shouted, leaning over, while still hopping, to breathe against John's face in anger.

John stood on the balls of his feet, Sherlock's book and his jacket in one hand as the other clenched into a fist, and looked Sherlock directly in the eyes. "I'm not the only one acting childish!"

The elevator bell rang and the doors opened onto the third storey and Sherlock backed out slowly, watching John. John rolled his eyes and stomped past the man and down the hall. He entered his room and slammed the door, not noticing that Sherlock had walked to the room next door, a room that was connected to his by a locked door.

Sherlock pulled off his shoes and massaged his injured toes before walking quietly to the adjoining door and listening carefully. He could hear John on the other side, banging around and then sitting with a loud creak on the bed. He was about to move away when he heard the mini fridge opening and three or four of the small bottles of alcohol being removed.

'John,' Sherlock thought, 'already?'

_____

John had downed his third mini bottle of cheap whiskey and was sitting in the uncomfortably cramped hotel bathtub when he finally decided he wanted to read Sherlock's book. It was probably shite, just like the arsehole who wrote it, but he had nothing better to do anyhow. He reached over the edge of the tub with one sudsy hand to where he had dropped the book a while back and brought it up close to his face.

The cover was an obvious stock photo; a man walking down a road, his hands in his pockets, he face turned, classic detective's hat on his head, rain falling, street lamps lit.

He opened to the first page and grimaced. Who would someone like Sherlock Holmes dedicate a book to?

Oh.

Oh, his dog.

Well, that was depressing.

He cleared his throat and flipped to the first page, ignoring the prologue because he always found them boring, and started to read.

_____

Sherlock was in bed an hour later when he heard the bed in the adjoining room, John's, obviously, creak. He held his breath and listened carefully as the bed frame knocked against the wall a few times and then grew quiet. John had stumbled into bed. Inebriated and alone. Sherlock almost felt bad for the man.

Instead of thinking on that he walked into the loo and turned the water in the sink on hot, clipping his fringe up and out of his face as steam covered the mirror. He turned the cold tap until the water wasn't viciously hot and scrubbed his face with a small washcloth and his own bar soap.

He'd hated this process when he'd had to begin it, sure that God had cursed him in particular when he'd turned thirty and found himself getting spots like he never had as a teenager. Now he gave into it freely, letting the water rinse off the soap and drying his face before applying his weekly cleansing mask. He turned his nose up at the menthol scent and rubbed it in circles until it covered the whole of his face, then went to sit in bed.

He set his alarm for twenty minutes and then picked up the book he'd been reading earlier, a book he'd never admit to anyone was his favorite. His guilty pleasure. Secretive Ways by John Watson, the second in the Detective Miller series.

-Excerpt from Secretive Ways by John Watson-

Lilly drank down another whiskey sour as the bartender, a handsome Japanese man, cleaned a glass in front of her. She was close to drunk, just how she liked to be.

"Do you think I'm pretty?" she asked, leaning against the bar top.

"Yes, ma'am. Very pretty indeed," the man replied as he rubbed the outside of the glass erotically, dipping his pointer finger in rhythmically.

"Then take me to bed straight away," Lilly demanded. 

The bartender's deep olive eyes grew hungry and he threw the glass he'd been cleaning to the ground, letting it smash behind him as he leaned in to cup her bountiful breast.

"As you wish, ma'am," he growled.


	3. Seating Asignments

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg gets home late from work and only wants to relax. His ex shows up and ruins that in the most delicious way possible. They're both left feeling empty.

Greg finally got home at ten that night, taking the tube after working for five bloody hours in his cramped office on the bottom floor of the publishing firm, and did his best not to slam the door behind himself. He may have been exhausted and more than a little disappointed in his life but that didn't mean he needed to wake the neighbors. 

He slipped his coat off and left it handing over the edge of the sofa as he walked into his bedroom. He needed to sleep but he knew he'd never be able to, what with the stress of the convention weighing on his mind, so instead of crawling into bed after pulling off his clothes and slipping into a pair of pyjama pants he went back into the sitting room and reached around in the dark for the remote.

A Hull v Arsenal match was just starting and he sighed as he shuffled into the kitchen to grab a beer from the fridge. Perhaps God didn't really have it out for him after all. Hell, he had a cold beer in his hand and a match on the telly and the flat below his had left their heater on all day so the temperature was rather nice. He sat on the sofa and breathed deeply before taking the first pull of his beer.

That perfect moment, relaxation and soon to be inebriation, was when there came a knock to the door. Not just any knock, either. One he knew. One he dreaded. 

"It's unlocked," he shouted, refusing to get up to show the posh git in.

The door opened slowly, the street lights behind the figure there lending him a dramatic air not unlike the figure itself, and Greg watched as his boss walked through the door.

"What do you want, Myc?" Greg asked, closing his eyes for a second before taking another pull of his beer.

"That's rather informal of you," Mycroft replied.

"Yeah, well, it's long past closing and you're in my bloody flat, again I might add, so I think informal fits. I take it you aren't here for cold Chinese and a pint," Greg replied smoothly, eyes fixed on the match.

"You know I detest the taste of beer," Mycroft replied, pulling off his coat and hanging it by the door before turning back around to frown at the small flat.

"Yeah, I know. What do you want?" Greg asked, shifting his hips and hating the way his cock always took interest when his boss used those leather clad hands of his to smooth down the front of his jacket.

"I want to know why in god's name you sat my brother with John Watson," Mycroft said, lifting his chin so he could manage to look down his nose in an even more hawkish fashion.

Greg rolled his eyes and moved over on the sofa to give Mycroft room if he deigned to sit. "Well, I couldn't stick him with Newberry and watch him pitch a fit when no one gave him a second look, now could I? Watson is at the bottom of the selling list along with your charming brother so they're sat together. I could've told you all this over the phone. Not like you've left me alone for more than a bloody half hour all day."

"It was a truly idiotic move. My brother is one of John Watson's readers," Mycroft said, filling the word with vitriol, "and has what he won't admit is a small crush on the man. Putting them together will encourage that crush and giving into sentiment is the last thing my brother needs at this point. He's fragile enough as it is."

Greg cursed under his breath and set his drink down. "Well, it's not my bloody fault you kept that from me. Not sure why I should be surprised. That's all you do, keep shite from me."

"They'll have to be moved tomorrow," Mycroft said, ignoring the jab and unbuttoning his jacket before letting it slip from his shoulders.

Greg watched him do it and warred with himself over whether or not he should let what was very obviously about to happen carry on. When he looked from where Mycroft was unbuttoning his shirtsleeve to his eyes he decided for it.

"Get me another beer from the fridge," he said.

"You know I hate when you taste like lager," Mycroft said, pausing.

"Yeah, well, this is how you get me, love. Take it or leave it," Greg said as he picked his half empty beer back up and drank it down.

Mycroft scowled and walked to the fridge and Greg went back to watching the game. 

"Your beer," Mycroft spat, sitting primly on the sofa next to Greg. 

Greg hummed and took it, popping the top off on the edge of the coffee table, and pulled on it fiercely.

"Do you have to be drunk for this?" Mycroft asked, the softness of his voice giving away his fear.

"No," Greg said, watching the telly as he took another sip and rested a cold hand on Mycroft's inner thigh. "Helps the medicine go down though, innit?"

"You used to enjoy this sort of thing," Mycroft said, letting his legs fall apart.

Greg nodded, jaw working on nothing. "Still do. It's the bit where you leave after that gets me."

"Gregory, I..." Mycroft tried.

"No use, gov," Greg said, taking the last drink from the bottle and setting it next to the other empty on the table, "we both know how this goes."

Mycroft bit the inside of his cheek and looked at the floor guiltily before squeaking aloud at being pulled into Greg's lap. Greg rubbed up his thighs, fingers scratching at expensive wool, and reached round to pull him forward by his arse.

"Quit pouting and kiss me," Greg said, eyes closing and mouth opening in waiting.

Mycroft huffed an angry breath and leaned forward to comply. Greg moaned into his mouth and gripped the back of Mycroft's head in one hand as he undid his zip with the other. He hissed when he felt gloved hands pulling down his pyjama trousers and lifted his hips to shake them all the way down and off.

"You know I love those gloves on you," he whispered against Mycroft's lips.

"That's why you bought them for me last Christmas," Mycroft purred, running one hand up to smooth through Greg's hair.

"I did, didn't I?" Greg chuckled, opening the front of Mycroft trousers and pulling his cock free.

"You aren't drunk enough to forget that," Mycroft murmured, eyes closing as he wrapped a gloved fist around Greg's prick.

"Stop talking," Greg said, rubbing the tip of Mycroft's cock with his thumb and tracing around the head as his foreskin drew back.

Mycroft leaned in to whisper against Greg's ear, glad for the darkness of the room. "I want your mouth, Gregory."

"Ah, that's too bad. My mouth is reserved for people who aren't too ashamed to date me," Greg said, bitter that they were having this conversation again.

"I wasn't ashamed," Mycroft said, eyebrows furrowed and hand stilling on Greg's cock.

Greg removed his hand from Mycroft's arse and put it over the one on his cock to start up the stroking again. "I thought I told you to stop talking."

"As you like it, then," Mycroft said, rolling his hips and sucking on Greg's neck.

Greg thrust up into the tight, leather clad fist and let himself get lost in the drag of it. "Christ, that's good."

Mycroft hummed and rocked and leaned back to kiss him, something he'd promised he'd never do again after they broke up the second time but not the only thing he couldn't give up. He pressed his tongue between Greg's lips and let it lap against its partner, breathing roughly through his nose as he fucked into Greg's hand faster.

Greg's teeth came into play, a sure sign that he was close to losing it, and Mycroft let the kiss turn ragged. Sure enough, Greg was soon gasping and shaking and Mycroft let himself be pulled over the edge into orgasm with one thought running mad circles in his mind.

'Mine, you're mine. Please. Mine.'

_____

Greg held his breath as he came down, letting his eyes remain closed as he waited for Mycroft to get up and clean himself with a rag at the kitchen sink before leaving. Instead, the man collapsed against him and breathed out a shaky sigh.

After a moment of nothing changing Greg got up the nerve to speak. "You can stay the night. It doesn't have to mean anything."

"That's the problem," Mycroft replied, "it always means something."

"Yeah," Greg said, defeated, "fine."

Mycroft sat back, eyes on Greg's lips, and then stood to pull himself together.

"I'll, uh, I'll move Watson tomorrow," Greg said, picking up his pyjama trousers and wiping himself off.

Mycroft surprised him by stilling. "No. Just...leave them be. Sherlock will have to figure his own way out of this."

"Oh, alright," Greg replied, unsure what the hell Mycroft was thinking.

Mycroft washed his gloves off in the sink and dried them carefully before putting on his jacket and coat and hovering by the front door.

"I was never ashamed, Gregory," he said quietly. "It'll do neither of us any good for you to think that."

And with that strange admission Mycroft was gone and Greg was alone again, the frown he wore coloured blue by the lit screen of the telly.


	4. Why Don't You Just Blog About It

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John's second day together is just as little a success as the first...although, John's blog seems to tell a slightly different tale...

Mycroft tried his best to look unaffected as he walked to the waiting sedan. It wouldn't do to have his assistant worrying after him. She was the only one who knew what this stop meant, even the drivers being changed up to avoid a known pattern, and he really didn't feel like explaining himself. 

He stood back as she opened the door from inside the car and slid over to give him room. She really was the only thing keeping him together on days like that, days where melancholy warred with jealousy in a way to make him act a fool.

"How was your meeting?" she asked, eyes not lifting from her mobile.

"Fine," he said shortly, hoping she would drop it completely.

"Home, then?" she asked.

Mycroft nodded and the sedan left the kerb.

Logically it made sense that Greg thought Mycroft was ashamed of him, but for once in a long while his life didn't move according to logic. He wasn't ashamed of Greg, were he a better man Greg would see that it was quite the opposite. He was proud of Greg's affection for him, had been. He'd wanted to show off that affection, have Greg join him at the club and take him to fancy parties. 

That was the problem. He needed to be seen as uncaring, had developed the façade of indifference over so many years that when he realised he no longer wanted it he felt a fool. He couldn't just change his entire being. He couldn't change because of one man. The risk was too high.

If Mycroft let himself feel, out in the open, let himself be SEEN feeling, and Greg changed his mind down the road he would be broken. 

Really, how could he expect someone as handsome and well liked as Greg Lestrade to put his whole life aside for someone like him? What did he have to offer once the champagne and penthouses became commonplace?

Under all the gilt he was just a man. 

"We're here," his assistant said, pulling him from his thoughts.

Mycroft nodded and thanked her and got from the sedan to make his way inside. The maid had his room warmed and the bedsheets pulled back and he sighed heavily and stripped, folding his clothes into clean squares before slipping under the duvet.

He tapped out a message to his brother and hit send.

I CERTAINLY HOPE YOU ENJOYED MEETING MR WATSON TODAY. MH

He waited for the reply and scowled when it came.

HOW WAS GRAHAM? SH

Mycroft frowned and turned the light next to his bed off before replying, letting the small amount of time speak for itself.

I'M SURE I DON'T KNOW WHAT YOU MEAN. MH

GOODNIGHT, MYCROFT. TRY NOT TO DREAM OF MY BOSS. SH

Mycroft rolled his eyes, dismissing the hurt and instead insisting it was just mild annoyance, and went to sleep.

_____

Sherlock got to the convention early the next morning, sitting uncomfortably and tearing the receipt from his coffee into smaller and smaller pieces. He didn't want to see Greg, not after he knew he'd been with his brother he past night, but he did want to see John. When John finally made his way in his shoulders were set and he was obviously agitated.

"Morning," he grumbled and he sat down next to Sherlock.

Sherlock nodded brusquely. "Indeed."

John sighed and sat back in his seat. He'd thought about Sherlock the whole of the night before. He simply couldn't get the bizarre man off his mind.

Greg had been right about Sherlock's book. John had barely got through four pages before he gave up trying to read it. It wasn't just that there were words he honestly had to look up, it was also that the characters lacked depth. They were obviously there just to spew out the knowledge Sherlock was full of. The cases were interesting, yes, but interesting in the way peer reviews and medical studies were interesting. Very much not relaxing reading.

All of that was weighing heavily on John's mind, he wasn't sure why it bothered him, when Sherlock spoke again.

"You haven't put a book out in over a year." 

John sat there with his mouth open for a minute before Sherlock cleared his throat and explained. "I looked you up last night. Needed to see what I was getting into by sitting next to you," Sherlock lied.

John felt less awkward about reading some of Sherlock's book the night before. "Oh, yeah? That's good."

"Why haven't you put out a book? Aren't you writing?" Sherlock pressed, even as John's hackles rose.

"I'm writing," John said defensively.

Sherlock cocked his head to the side and scrutinised John carefully. "You're three months behind and you haven't even finished the next book?"

"Jesus," John said, nose scrunching up, "you really don't know when to quit. Just read over the   
last two if you're so bloody eager."

Neither of them saw the two readers step into the room and walk up. 

"I told you," Sherlock sputtered, "I don't read your books. They're frivolous and should be in the romance section. The cases are hardly believable."

John's mouth opened and closed with a snap as he crossed his arms angrily. The readers watched on in horror as he responded.

"Yeah, well at least I have readers. My cases might not be as brilliant as yours but at least people can get through more than FIVE PAGES! If you're writing were any less palpable it would be used as kindling."

"You're...you're a horrible little man!" Sherlock shouted as he stood and pushed past the readers to leave the room.

_____

"He's impossible!" Sherlock shouted, following Greg into a side room.

"What the bloody hell did you say to him?" Greg asked, closing the door behind them and running a hand through his hair.

"He...I...why do you assume I did anything?" Sherlock spat, cheeks pinkening.

"Because you always do! You say something patronising and people react badly to it. Did you say something about his books?" Greg asked with a sigh.

"Well, yes, but he was terrible back!" Sherlock replied.

Greg attempted to hide his smile and shrugged. "Well, doesn't that make you even?"

"He said my cases were-"

Greg finally did smile as he saw Sherlock's eyebrows draw together comically as something occurred to him. He couldn't help himself from asking. "What did he say about your cases?"

"He said they were brilliant," Sherlock replied unsteadily. 

Greg had a chance to look confused before he smiled again. "That's good then, isn't it? Maybe you two should-"

Sherlock spun and walked away before Greg could finish.

_____

The day passed painfully, Sherlock lost in his own mind mulling over his reaction to realising John had pretty much called him brilliant. He was so caught up in it that he didn't notice when things came to a stop and John left. 

_____

John was angry. It was bad enough having to do the stupid convention without being sat next to an arsehole like Sherlock Bloody Holmes. Strangely enough that anger turned into something else. It turned into the urge to write.

Not a new novel, mind you, but the blog his therapist had been hassling him about. It was the perfect place to air his grievances. 

When he made it home he pulled out his laptop, the phrase 'dusted off' coming to mind, and made himself some tea. It was easy enough to find a website that had templates for blogs and soon enough he was putting his picture in the right place and venting to absolutely no one. And, God, did it feel good.

-Transcript of the blog of Dr. John H. Watson- 

A Strange Meeting

My therapist suggested a write a blog. Up until this point I didn't see why I should, or even what I should write if I were to start it. That is, until today. Something has happened in the last two days that I feel like getting off my chest. Here goes.

I am working a writer's convention for the next two weeks. Yesterday I met the writer who is sharing my booth. At first he seemed to be as uninterested in being there as I was, sorry, Greg. After a while I realised he was just horrible company. 

I tried to make small talk but he's apparently above all that. It was a boring day and I might as well have been sitting there on my own.

The worst part was that when he did speak he was strangely insightful and sort of brilliant. It's frustrating. I think he may be mad. He was arrogant and rude and a bit too posh for my liking and looks about 12 and, yes, I'm sure now that he's mad but what's really got me up a wall is that after all that he was still strangely likeable. 

He wasn't really charming but there was something about him that I just couldn't shake. So here I am, somehow looking forward to seeing him tomorrow. Maybe I'm a glutton for punishment. Maybe I'm mad, too. 

So tomorrow I'll sit next to him again. Me and the madman. Me and Sherlock Holmes.


	5. Hooky

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What it says on the tin.

The next morning Sherlock walked into the building with purpose. John was already at his seat, looking a bit less stressed out than he had the day before. Sherlock breathed deeply and went to sit next to him. 

"Strangely like-able. Sort of brilliant. Madman?" Sherlock asked, not looking up from his mobile.

John stilled, coffee almost to his mouth, and then slowly turned. "Why were you reading my personal blog?"

"Oh, John," Sherlock said, leaning back and rolling his eyes, "your entire name was on it? It was the second thing that showed up in a search of your name. You put your picture on it. How many reasons do you want me to give before you admit it was meant for widespread consumption?"

"Widespread consumption?" John protested. "I wanted no such thing! It was a personal blog suggested by my therapist!"

"John Watson!" Greg shouted as he walked into the room. "You're a bloody genius! Head office is going to kick my arse for not clearing this blog thing with them first but, by God, the publicity alone will be enough to make up for it! Do you know how many people are waiting out front to meet your mystery seat mate? Fifteen! Fifteen people here just for this room! That's three times how many were here all day yesterday!"

John sputtered and stood, hand going to grip his thigh. "What are you on about?"

Greg clapped John on the back and beamed at him. "The blog, John. It's brilliant! Hope you don't mind, but I imbedded a link to it on the convention website. Can't wait to see what you have to write up tonight!"

John didn't say anything so Greg tried to tamp down his excitement and excused himself.

"You didn't think people would see it," Sherlock said, finally catching on.

"Um, no," John said sitting back down again.

Sherlock looked at him gravely. "Right. Well, there's only one thing to do, then."

"What's that?" John asked, turning to him with furrowed brows.

"We have to play hooky," Sherlock said, nodding solemnly.

John stared at him for a moment and then snorted. "You've got to be joking..."

"You've met me, John, how often do you think I joke. Come now, gather your things."

John only hesitated for a moment before grabbing his bag and jacket and following Sherlock out the door and to the elevator.

"Where are we going?" he whispered roughly.

"The roof. There's a wonderful view of the harbor and a total lack of Greg Lestrade. Two of the first things I look for when finding a place to spend the day," Sherlock said smoothly, pressing the button for the upper parking complex and then slipping a key from his pocket and inserting it into a slot below the button.

"What's that?" John asked, for once forgetting about the pain in his leg.

"It's a roof access key. Swiped it off a guard yesterday. Thought it might come in handy," Sherlock said, raising his eyebrows at John and trying to keep a straight face as the man smiled.

The smile John gave changed his whole appearance. It softened his eyes and he seemed younger instantly. If that made something clench in Sherlock's chest he didn't say, but then again, who ever comments on emotion with a crush so near. He cleared his throat and turned the key and they made their way up.

The elevator doors opened onto a short hallway, white but for one black light fixture and the silver handle of the door leading to the roof. John looked over at Sherlock with mischief in his eyes and Sherlock tried to remain superior and nodded in the direction of the door.

"This is ridiculous. We're going to be in so much trouble," John said as he pushed the door open and walked out to the edge of the roof.

Sherlock watched as he put on his jacket and then walked forward to meet him. "Shall I tell you a secret?"

John looked at him and cocked his head to the side. 

"Our boss is my older brother. I guarantee if we go half in on a champagne cake he'll forget to be upset," Sherlock explained, hands slipping into his pockets.

"Oh, God, that arsehole is your brother?" John squeaked. "He's been on me for the last month and a half. I hate him...I mean, well, he's-"

Sherlock finally smiled at John's stumbling, at how openly he showed his disdain, and interrupted. "You're right. He's insufferable. If you think it's bad having him bothering you once a week just imagine him trying to control your entire life. 'You can't make a living being a private eye, Sherlock. You need to have a steady job, Sherlock. You should just become a writer, Sherlock. There's no such thing as a consulting detective, Sherlock.' He's a monster."

John licked his lips and angled his body more openly. Sherlock made note and promised himself he'd do anything he could to keep that up.

"You don't like writing?" John asked, ears starting to turn pink from the cold.

"God, no. It's awful. Why on earth would I be interested in telling people about my cases?" Sherlock asked. "By the time they're solved the interesting part is over."

"But...wait, the stories in your books are..." John began, his brain clunking along after the uptake.

"Based on true stories. You'd know that if you read them," Sherlock said, leaning over the edge of the building and looking down.

John sighed and mirrored Sherlock, scanning the road below. "I did, well, I tried to read your latest."

Sherlock rumbled next to him. "Mmm. Four pages, was it? I take it you skipped the prologue."

"Guilty," John said, looking over at Sherlock before pulling back to sit on the ledge.

Sherlock started pacing, hands clenched behind his back, and John watched him carefully. He wasn't at all what John had first thought of him. Not at all.

"So you're a detective of some sort?" John said after a long bit of silence.

"Consulting detective," Sherlock explained. "Only one there is. I assist the Met when they're out of their depths and the public when it interests me."

John could just see him pushing onto a crime scene. "And that doesn't pay the bills?"

"I refuse to take compensation from the police. If I did that I'd be just as bad as them," Sherlock started.

Before John could ask exactly what he meant he continued on. 

"And the private cases I take are usually paid in favors. Over six restaurants in London take my name in lieu of payment and another dozen small businesses do the same. Unfortunately, none of them happen to be the electric company. They, it seems, are rather more hesitant to work on a barter system."

"I've noticed the same," John teased.

Sherlock looked down at him and John just smiled at him crookedly.

"You're joking," Sherlock said flatly.

"Trying to," John said, shrugging. "Tell me about your last case."

Sherlock looked at John, as if expecting to find a tease in his eyes or something at least a little disingenuous. Instead he found sincerity. 

"You really want to hear about it?" he asked, more to the universe than to John in particular.

John's mobile rang and broke the moment for both of them. "Shite. It's Greg."

"Don't answer it. Put it on silent," Sherlock urged.

John chewed his lip and seemed to think on it before hitting the flashing end button and turning the phone completely off. He shrugged at Sherlock's look of surprise. "Still not completely sure how to put it on silent."

Sherlock broke into a laugh and sat next to him, his voice rumbling out of him as he pondered aloud, "which case to start with?"

_____

It was nearly two hours later, two hours wherein Sherlock recounted every interesting case he'd taken in the last year and a half, that John realised how hungry he was. He shifted and put his hand on Sherlock's thigh to get him to stop speaking for a moment.

"I'm starving. I guess our bit of fun is up," he said.

Sherlock appraised him, eyes narrowed, and disagreed. "I don't think so. I think we've just got to sneak into the kitchen and bring lunch back up here. The weather has cleared and we won't see another mild day like this for a while."

John tilted his head to the side, thanking the lord that he hadn't known Sherlock in primary school, and licked his lips. 

'What on earth are you doing, Watson?' the voice in his head asked. 'Running round after a tall boy with dark hair and a penchant for breaking the rules?'

"Unless you're afraid," Sherlock pressed.

John snorted and stood. "Alright, genius, lead the way."

Sherlock's eyebrows flicked up flirtatiously and he held his arm out towards the elevator. "Back the way we came, I'm afraid."

"Into the lion's den," John added.

_____

They made it to the kitchen in record time, going the back way and keeping their heads down as they passed staff left and right. Sherlock nicked himself an apron and hair net and nodded towards the back door to the kitchen. There was a brunette woman sitting on a chair just at the door, obviously keeping out the riffraff. 

"What am I supposed to do?" John asked in a stage whisper.

"Pretend you're lost," Sherlock said with some exasperation, "pretend you need help finding the loo. I don't know. Keep her busy."

John squared his shoulders and nodded curtly before walking around the corner. Sherlock felt something tighten in his chest as John approached the woman. A flit of jealousy. Atrocious.

"Hi," John said, smile oozing charm as he tapped the pass hanging around his neck. "I'm one of the writers. I've seemed to have lost my way."

The woman looked up and stood a bit eagerly. "H-have you then?"

"Well, you know us writers; always thinking but never looking where we're going," John said, finger pressed to his temple.

The woman giggled and followed John out into the hallway. "Of course. Well, where were you headed?" 

_____

"Oh, ma'am, I'm so lost!" Sherlock drawled as he pushed open the door to the roof with his shoulder, two paper bags in his hands. "You know us writers. Don't know how I even found my way out of the house today! I'm so very forgetful. Whatever will I do?"

John giggled and elbowed Sherlock when the taller man batted his eyelashes. "It worked, didn't it?"

"Mmm, I thought you'd get a marriage proposal by the end of it," Sherlock added, nodding.

John laughed and collapsed back to where he'd been sitting before. "Oi, shut it and give me my food."

"The fair maiden gets rough around the edges when she doesn't eat enough," Sherlock said, pressing both bags into John's hands.

"The fair maiden might clip your ear for all this cheek," John added. "What did you get us?"

"A little of everything," Sherlock said, watching John open the bags and hoping he'd done well.

John tore one of the bags along the edge to create a makeshift placemat and started to lay the food out. The spread included a cheese sandwich, an apple, a bottle of miniature pickles, two ginger beers, salted crisps, a salami, a croissant, some sweets and...and a whole onion.

John held the onion up and looked over at Sherlock. "What's this for?"

"For eating," Sherlock said, nervousness choking him. He'd never planned a meal before, let alone last minute, and he felt that it should be appreciated that the lot of it was edible.

"A whole onion?" John asked, chuckling to himself.

Sherlock shrugged and looked away. "Some people rather like onion."

"Yeah, well, not to take a bite of," John teased.

"I just threw things in a bag!" Sherlock squeaked.

"Hey," John said, patting the ground beside him. "I was just teasing. You did a great job. It looks good."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and sat next to John, picking up the crisps bag and opening it.

"Maybe we'll save the onion for pudding," John said with a smirk, setting it aside.

"Don't be horrible," Sherlock said.

John sighed happily. "I know, sorry. Sorry. At least you've got me laughing! Can't remember a better day. Not for the life of me."

Sherlock looked over and knew for a fact, just from John's face, that it was true. "Crisp, fair maiden?"

"Don't mind if I do," John replied, hand resting on Sherlock's knee unconsciously.


	6. After All This Is Over

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The end of a perfect day for Sherlock and John and the beginning of a tense night for Greg and Mycroft.

Before they knew it the day was over. They watched the other writers exit the building from the roof, leaning over the edge and laughing while Sherlock deduced them.

"I think it's safe to leave," John said after they spied Greg hopping into a cab.

Sherlock sighed and picked up their trash as John made his way to the door. As they rode down in the lift they fell into an easy silence. John's opinion of Sherlock had completely changed and he wondered how he hadn't noticed how incredibly attractive Sherlock was before that point. Sure, he was all sharp angles and, as he'd said in his blog, looked young, but he was also quite pretty. Strange, that.

John was pulled from his thoughts as the lift door opened and Sherlock walked out. He jogged to catch up and then matched Sherlock's stride.

"There aren't nearly enough trash bins in this building," Sherlock grumbled, finally coming to one and tossing the left overs from their lunch.

"Should we try to catch the tube or..." John started.

"Might as well," Sherlock replied. "Nothing to do in this god forsaken town."

John quirked a smile at how grumpy Sherlock was and walked with him to the station. He wanted to say again how wonderful his day had been but though better of it. Something told him he was expressing it all too much.

"Are you missing home?" John asked.

"I'd rather be in London than anywhere else in the world. Why they held the conference here instead I'll never know. I would have refused the hotel room if I had a car but getting on the tube that early in the morning seemed like a mistake," Sherlock explained.

"I, um, I live in London as well," John said, amused by the way Sherlock trotted down the stairs into the station. "Maybe after this is all over we can go out for a pint or something."

Sherlock eyed him carefully and John laughed a bit, nervous and feeling stupid for suggesting this. His and Sherlock's budding friendship, or whatever it was, surely had a time limit. It was the same with the army and that summer camp he'd gone to as a child. John just wasn't one to have permanent friends.

"I don't really drink," Sherlock said, worrying that John would be the type of man to get smashed every night.

"Understood," John said. "I only drink when I'm stressed out."

"This week has been difficult for you," Sherlock said, very much not a question.

"Sitting behind a table and facing the fact that everyone but me has put out a book last year? Yeah, not exactly my glass of tea. That and the fact that Valentine's is coming up," John said, eyes going slightly far off.

"Are you, that is, do you miss your significant other?" Sherlock asked, not understanding the sinking feeling in his stomach.

"Oh. Oh, no, it's just a hard time of year for me," John said, looking down and away and gripping his thigh.

"It's when you were injured," Sherlock said.

"No, um, when I came back after the injury. It always seems like a particularly awful time of year for me. Bad luck, I suppose," John said. "And I won't ask how you knew about my injury, it'll just make me feel pathetic."

"You're hardly pathetic," Sherlock said. "I think you're very interesting."

John's mouth fell open at that and he hurried to pile into the tube behind Sherlock. 

They didn't speak for the whole of the ride and John began to wonder again whether he'd ever see Sherlock after the conference.

"Coffee," Sherlock said, refusing to meet John's eyes.

"Coffee?" John asked.

"Yes. 'After this is all over.'" Sherlock parroted.

John smiled, and breathed deeply before nodding. "Yeah, coffee."

They got off at their stop and walked the short way to the hotel then went to the lift. When the doors opened Sherlock pulled John by his sleeve, walking quickly and then running to the stairwell. John jogged to keep up, not knowing what the bloody hell was going on. They burst into the stairwell and then rested against the closed door, Sherlock glancing over his shoulder and through the small window leading into the hallway.

"What are we doing?" John asked in a stage whisper.

"Lestrade is out there," Sherlock explained. "He was on the lift."

John peeked around Sherlock's shoulder and then leaned back quickly.

"Do you think he was looking for us?" John asked.

"Undoubtedly," Sherlock said.

John started laughing and Sherlock looked over at him. After staring at John's mouth for what he knew was much too long he began laughing as well.

"Have you got your breath back?" Sherlock asked.

John nodded and they jogged the rest of the way to their floor. When they made it John cleared his throat and looked over at Sherlock. "Well, I suppose I'll see you tomorrow."

"Yes," Sherlock said, walking alongside him.

"You didn't have to walk me to my door," John said as they came to it, hating the part of himself that thought it somehow romantic.

"I didn't," Sherlock said, pulling a keycard from his pocket and sticking it into the door next to John's.

"Oh, Jesus. How did I not know you had the room next to me?" John chuckled.

"Poor observational skills," Sherlock said with a smile.

"Alright, arsehole," John teased. "I'll see you in the morning."

Sherlock's smile was so small and brief that John almost missed it. He watched as Sherlock walked into the room and then collapsed against the wall with a sigh. 

_____

Greg was already in his pants when the knock came to his door that evening. He didn't say anything but Mycroft came in anyhow.

"I'm gonna start locking my door," he said with a sigh.

"Are you aware that my brother was missing today?" Mycroft asked, hand clutching his umbrella with crushing force.

Greg scratched a hand through his hair. "You know I am. And if you've come to yell at me I'll have to remind you I'm not a bloody babysitter."

"You should at least-" Mycroft said, lip curling.

"I should at least what?" Greg demanded, standing and taking a few steps to get into Mycroft's face. "I should spend all of my time trying to convince your brother to show up to meetings and dealing with the aftermath of that falling through. You should be having a fit in his hotel room, not my bloody flat and you fucking-”

Mycroft surged forward and kissed Greg, gripping his arm and shoving his tongue into his mouth. Greg took a step back and put a hand on his chest to push him away.

"Bloody ask before pulling that shite," he growled.

Mycroft put his hand gently on Greg's and looked him in the eyes. "May I kiss you?"

Greg pulled him down by his hair and licked into his mouth, pushing him backwards into his bedroom and shoving him down onto the bed.

"Take those expensive trousers off before you wrinkle them, you posh git," Greg said, tearing at the laces on Mycroft's shoes and pulling them off to fling across the room.

"Pushy," Mycroft intoned, unbuckling his belt.

Greg laughed humorlessly and pulled at the hem of Mycroft's trousers. "Yeah, you knew that getting into this, sweetheart."


	7. Perhaps

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft and Greg actually talk a bit about their feelings and John writes up his blog.

Greg finally got out of his pants and pushed Mycroft onto his back. "This is what you wanted, wasn't it?"

Mycroft took a deep breath and Greg kissed his neck roughly.

"Gregory," Mycroft murmured.

Greg pulled back and looked down at him. "Just admit that you wanted this, that this was why you came over! Any excuse to get into my flat."

"G-Greg," Mycroft whispered, looking away quickly.

"Why can't you just bloody ask?" Greg hissed, taking both their cocks in a spit slicked hand and thrusting his hips.

"Because this wasn't what I really wanted," Mycroft admitted, already groaning and rolling his hips.

Greg drew away, both hands moving to prop himself up on the bed. 

"Don't stop!" Mycroft shouted, nails biting into Greg's back.

"I'm not going to do this if-" Greg began.

Mycroft huffed a sigh. "Oh, for Christ's sake. This wasn't what I came here for but I want it."

"We're talking about this after," Greg insisted, waiting for a response.

Mycroft urged him to action and nodded. "Yes, fine, after."

Greg gripped them again and moaned in relief as he set up a quick rhythm. Mycroft held him close and the next time they kissed it was hesitantly, both of them feeling a little off kilter even as they moved closer to orgasm.

It only took a few more minutes of mindless thrusting for Greg to come, Mycroft lasting only seconds longer. Greg leaned over the edge of the bed and grabbed a discarded vest off the floor. He cleaned himself off and then folded it and passed it over, laying back on the bed with a meaningful space between them.

They lay there for an agonising few minutes before Greg cleared his throat. "You're going to have to explain-"

"I missed you," Mycroft said, interrupting him.

Greg looked over in shock and shook his head. "You saw me this morning when you checked in on me."

"Don't make me say it again," Mycroft said, hands clenching.

"What did you expect to happen when you came over?" Greg asked, trying to understand. "We aren't exactly friends."

"I honestly don't know," Mycroft admitted.

Greg stared at him, hoping to catch a lie, because this was all honestly too damn much for him to process in the middle of the night. "But it wasn't about sex?" 

"No," Mycroft said softly.

Greg cleared his throat and swallowed, preparing himself for rejection. "Would you...would you like to spend the night?"

"Perhaps," came Mycroft's response.

They lay there in silence for another few minutes before Mycroft reached a hand out and gripped Greg's. His hand was shaking. Greg nodded to no one and pulled the duvet over them.

_____

Across town John was resting in bed and writing on his blog. For the second day in a row he felt like writing. It was unreal.

-Excerpt from John Watson's blog-

Spent the day running away from responsibility. It's been a long time since I've smiled. I don't mean that to sound melodramatic. 

I suppose you've all figured out that I'm writing about the writer Sherlock Holmes. I hardly thought that anyone would read this or I would have been more stealthy. The number of hits since yesterday is frightening. I should say that I had no intention of linking this blog to the convention page. Sometimes managers take things into their own hands, sorry Greg.

Back to today. I wasn't looking forward to the convention. As much as I appreciate my readers I have trouble in situations that have me sitting for a long period of time. It was to my relief, and disbelief, that my day was destined to change. 

Sherlock was different. He surprised me by suggesting we run away for the day. Hopefully Greg will forgive me eventually. So we ended up sitting on the roof and talking. He's such an interesting man. I had no idea the stories he wrote about were actually true. He told me such amazing things.

My favorite story was the case I've come to think of as the missing egg. Sherlock was contacted by an elderly man named Richard Tollance. He had a large home in the country that was full of expensive artifacts from his travels around the world when he was younger. His prized possession was a diamond and ruby encrusted egg from China. It had, as you can guess, gone missing.

Sherlock searched the house for less than an hour before leaving Mr Tollance to wonder if he'd return.

He did three days later, inquiring about a relative that might live west of London. Mr Tollance affirmed his suspicion and Sherlock explained to him that the red clay outside the window and in the parlor could only have come from one place. Mr Tollance called the person, his nephew, and invited him to dinner on Sherlock's suggestion.

At dinner that night Sherlock interrogated the man and went about picking apart his alibi until the man sobbed and tried to apologise. The egg was returned the next day and Mr Tollance was more grateful than he could say.

In lieu of payment Sherlock was presented with a vintage book on chemistry by some Doctor I've never heard of. It's apparently worth over eight thousand pounds! 

All of that just because of a bit of dirt. The man is amazing. 

And now I've gone and spent the whole time talking about Sherlock. I suppose once you meet him you have no other choice.

As for the day, we ate pickles and a sandwich and sweets and were delinquents. I suppose tomorrow will be back to work as usual but perhaps I'll be treated to the recounting of another case. 

_____

John closed his laptop and listened to see if he could tell of Sherlock was still awake. He couldn't hear anything so he slipped his laptop onto the bedside table and pulled the covers up, willing sleep to come.


	8. Good Morning

Sherlock was sat on the floor, back leaned against the wall next to the door between his and John's rooms, with his laptop open. There were more civilized ways to do it, of course, but he found himself listening through the door and tapping the reload button over and over. It had been hours since they last spoke and Sherlock was beginning to wonder if John would write up his blog at all that night. He chewed his lip and pinned one last stray curl off his forehead and nearly jumped when the page reloaded with a new post.

Oh. 

Oh, this was...

He read through the post seven or so times before he made himself set aside the laptop and go rinse the mask from his face. It wouldn't do to get out of control before getting ready for bed, after all. He dried his face and hung his silk robe in the loo and turned the lights off slowly before slipping into bed, the only thing illuminating the room being the screen of his mobile. 

He found the blog and read through it once more before setting his phone aside and pulling the covers over his head in embarrassment. He could feel the flush on his face as he let one hand reach down to slide below the band of his pants and brush through his pubic hair to encircle his cock.

He shouldn't, really shouldn't, be touching himself while thinking of John. Sure, he'd done so before, when John was just a handsome writer who wore a fake stethoscope in his author photo, but now he knew John. Now it wasn't a crush on someone whose, undeniably bad, writing had made his blood rush but a crush on someone who was completely different than the man he'd always assumed was behind the trashy novels.

He'd assumed that John was a confident ladies' man, a misconception that was fueled by the three interviews that could be found online. That had turned out to be a very small part of John that was blown out of proportion by the bit of success his first book brought. He was young and handsome and the romance novel sector (though he refused to see his books as such) was in dire need of a male touch. He'd taken off like a rocket.

But, now that he knew John, Sherlock couldn't simply see him as the one dimensional character he'd been portrayed as.

John was more.

John was grumpy. John was a strong British man dealing with depression and insomnia. John was a veteran invalided out at his prime who hated his current situation just as much as Sherlock did. John was difficult and temperamental and under the bizarre impression that Sherlock was interesting.

Oh, and didn't that send something curling low in Sherlock's belly? John thought he was interesting, was perhaps even interested IN Sherlock. Only...that couldn't be true. 

Sherlock closed his eyes tightly and tried to remember his favorite scene from John's first book. The main detective in that one had fallen in love with the reporter covering the case. They were in a small coffee shop in the middle of the night, the detective telling the reporter there was no other information she could give him.

'The people want to know the truth,' the reporter said, his tall frame somehow changing into the compact body of John Watson.

'I'll get in trouble if I tell you anymore,' Sherlock replied in place of the detective.

'But you aren't afraid of trouble,' the reporter, now one hundred percent John Watson, replied, 'are you?'

Sherlock shivered and almost felt John's shoe run up under the hem of his trousers, the scene becoming real as he gripped himself.

"Of course I'm not afraid," Sherlock murmured aloud, stroking his cock and shuddering.

He focused on the head of his prick and moaned softly as the feeling of John's toe on his calf continued up.

Next door John sat up straight in bed, awoken from sleep by the sentence uttered next door in just enough time to hear the moan. His body reacted before he had a chance and he found himself growing hard.

He bit his lip and held his breath and tried as much as he could to not make a sound, still in the that post sleep adrenalin filled moment that most veterans know. He swore he could hear rough breathing from the other side of the wall. From where Sherlock's bed was situated.

He slid from his bed and silently tiptoed to the door, leaning against the wall next to it and reaching down to squeeze his cock through his pants.

"Oh," Sherlock murmured from the other side, pulling down the covers so as not to be suffocated by his own hot breath.

John closed his eyes and rested against the wall for a long time before he gave in and yanked his pants down to his thighs. He could hear Sherlock breathing and knew that if he stayed right where he was he would soon be able to hear more. The thought of Sherlock in bed stroking his cock was enough to make him nearly bite through his tongue as he spread precome around the head of his prick and then pulled back on the foreskin.

Sherlock was beyond any type of real concentration at that point and the scene he'd had going in his head melted away to reveal what was really turning him on; John's voice calling him brilliant over and over again. 'Brilliant, Sherlock,' it hissed. 'You got that all from the dirt, just brilliant.'

It only took a few more thrusts into his hand, his ears not catching the way it made his bed whine beneath him, before he was quite literally choking and coming on his own chest. 

On the other side of the wall John timed his strokes with the creaks coming from Sherlock's bed and bit down hard enough to taste copper when he heard a cough and a groan. Sherlock was coming, he was coming. The thought spun in his head over and over until he felt the tightness in his abdomen and quickened his hand and came with it on his lips. Silently whispering it one last time, "he's coming."

_____

John felt stupid. He shouldn't be standing there waiting for Sherlock like they were going on some date. Sherlock had said he would see him in the morning, yes, but it had been a pleasantly, not a plan. He'd meant that they were going to end up seeing each other at the convention, not that they would get coffee and sit next to each other on the tube. He was being ridiculous.

"John," Sherlock asked, breaking the little bubble of self loathing John had stuck himself in.

"Oh, uh, hello," John sputtered, chewing his lip and pressing his tongue to the roof of his mouth in an effort to shut up.

"Shall we go?" Sherlock asked, expertly hiding the giddy smile that resulted in seeing John flustered by turning and closing his door.

John nodded and started walking towards the lift, hands in his pockets and bag over his shoulder. He looked to Sherlock like an English professor, subdued tweed and leather settling him firmly in the 'dressed like my father would have wanted me to' category. 

They got into the lift silently and rode down to street level secretly glancing at one another and completely oblivious to the people around them. It's not that every single person was watching them, that wouldn't happen for another half a week, but a few shot them knowing looks and one even opened her newspaper and glanced between it and them.

"You'll want to stop for coffee and a pastry," Sherlock said, holding the main door open for John.

"Will I?" John asked, walking out onto the street and turning right.

Sherlock grabbed his arm and redirected him, holding onto it a bit longer than was necessary. "We both know you become grumpy if you don't eat."

"Grumpy!" John protested, really just needing to speak to keep himself from focusing on where they had been touching. 

Sherlock smiled at him and he let out a sharp breath. How on earth was he to stay mad at this man?

"There's a place down the street with meat pasties," Sherlock explained. "You'll need to be in a good mood for when we get hollered at today."

"Oh," John said, sighing and deflating a bit. "I'd forgot. Greg is going to skin us."

"Perhaps we should bring him something as well," Sherlock replied.

_____

Greg rolled over and stretched. He'd had a bizarre dream about him and his sister living near a large pool when they were younger. Nothing really happened in the dream but the feeling that something had stuck with him. When he opened his eyes he was shocked from the thought.

Mycroft was still asleep, hair sticking up and mouth slightly agape. It was a scene Greg knew well but one he had no idea he would experience again. Mycroft just looked so...soft. All the hard angles caused by anger and disappointment and his overactive suspicion were smoothed away in sleep and Greg couldn't stop himself from reaching out and running fingers through the soft red hairs on his chest.

"Mmm," Mycroft murmured, stirring from sleep and reaching out for Greg.

Greg let himself be pulled close and lay against his chest barely breathing. He knew the realisation of the circumstance would come soon. And there it was. Mycroft stilled and his muscles tensed.

"Gregory," he said, sounding shocked.

For a second Greg thought we was about to be pushed away. When Mycroft instead held him tighter and pressed a kiss to his forehead Greg shuddered. He didn't want this, didn't want everything that came with being in a relationship without Mycroft having to deal with the consequences of his actions. It had been a bad idea to ask him to stay.

He pulled away and sat up, refusing to look Mycroft in the eye. "You should go."

"Gregory," Mycroft tried, hand reaching out.

"No. Absolutely not. You don't get all the perks of being in a relationship with me because you aren't. You don't want to be. So go take a shower and then please leave...and don't come back."

"You don't mean that," Mycroft said, shaking his head. "This is what you wanted."

"This isn't what I bloody wanted!" Greg shouted. "What I wanted was to be your significant other and there's nothing significant about being your fuck buddy. You don't deserve to get comfort from me. Not after everything you did."

"Fine. I'll leave," Mycroft said, standing and collecting his clothes.

Greg closed his eyes and listened as Mycroft left the flat without showering, then got out of bed and got ready for work. He would not cry over that heartless bastard again. Not one more bloody time.


	9. Tabloid Journalism At Its Best

There were whispers as Sherlock and John made their way into the convention center but they were so wrapped up in each other that they didn't notice them. What they did notice was the surprising smile on Greg's face when he walked in.

"I was supposed to be angry with you but I really can't manage it," Greg said, walking over and setting a newspaper down in front of them.

John looked at Sherlock, eyebrows drawn together, and Sherlock shrugged.

Greg laughed and opened the newspaper. "You can't possibly have missed it!"

On the next to last page, in the entertainment section, there was a picture of the front of the convention center under the headline, 'Love Is In The Air'. Sherlock snatched the paper up and read through it quickly.

-Excerpt from the local Times-

In a surprising turn of events, the main attraction of the Writer's Convention being held this month isn't a seasoned writer with an award winning novel. Instead it is the unexpected electricity between two of the lesser known writers. John Watson, writer of the Detective Miller novels, and Sherlock Holmes, writer of The Death Of Daniel Carson, have been spending their days running off to have romantic meals on the roof rather than meeting their fans.

This revelation was brought to light when John Watson decided his next foray into writing wouldn't be in novel form, but instead a blog. The blog was noticed right away as a departure from the norm when a link was posted on the convention web page and readers and spectators alike took notice.

The first blog entry revealed Watson's searing interest in Holmes while the second, posted late last night, read like a love story. Watson is clearly enamoured with Holmes and the new take on romance from the writer has caused a buzz like no other. People just can't wait to see the two men's budding romance evolve. With Valentine's Day coming up it couldn't be timed better if it was scripted. Who knows what will come next? Candlelit dinners? Roses? No matter what, the eyes of the city are on these two men.

-End of excerpt-

John, who had been reading the article over Sherlock's shoulder, was bright red by the time he'd finished. He swallowed roughly and sat back in his seat, clearing his throat. "I think people are reading a bit more into this than is, uh, uh, appropriate."

Sherlock was completely silent next to him and John, figuring Sherlock would agree with him wholeheartedly, looked over to see what was wrong. Sherlock's cheeks were coulored richly and even the tips of his ears were pink. He was blinking quickly as his mouth opened and closed and John rested a hand on his knee to try to get his attention.

"I'm, I'm, I'm, I'm, people just, they, they, just," Sherlock sputtered, shaking his head slightly. "They always, it's just, they, they, they-"

"Sherlock," John said, seriously concerned, "let's get you to the loo and get some cold water on your face, yeah?"

Greg looked on as John dragged him away by the arm, then answered his mobile and refolded the paper.

_____

John locked the loo door behind them and ushered Sherlock over to the sink. He ran a paper towel under the water and then rung it out, pressing it to the back of Sherlock's neck as the man leaned against the sink. John was looking for signs of panic attack but other than the stuttering and blushing Sherlock just seemed to be embarrassed.

"I'm sorry that you had to hear about my blog post like this-" John tried, moving from foot to foot and keeping his eyes on the ground.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and interrupted. "I-I didn't. I read it last night."

"I didn't mean for it to be...romantic," John said.

Sherlock snorted and rolled his eyes more violently. "Yes, I gathered as much from your response to the article. I won't expect, I mean, I wasn't expecting you to..."

John felt himself flush and stuck his hands in his pockets. This was not at all what he was hoping would happen. He took a deep breath and peeled the paper towel off Sherlock's neck and stood up a bit straighter.

"Well," he said, voice finally sounding sure, "we know people are idiots, and idiots talk. There's really nothing we can do about that so...so unless you have a better plan I think we should just ignore them."

John seemed relaxed, even as his mind screamed at him to just delete the blog and move to a cabin in the woods where no one could find him. This was the kind of exposure that would have triggered him and he realised just then that the only thing that stopped that was seeing Sherlock fall apart. He switched into Doctor mode and couldn't manage to focus on anything but his perceived patient.

Sherlock looked over at him with apprehension in his eyes and John breathed deeply, not sure what to expect.

"It was more...hero worship than romance," Sherlock said, smiling a bit.

It was John's turn to roll his eyes and he took it with gusto. "Don't push me, Holmes. Today is already working against me."

Sherlock nodded and then unlocked the door and held it open for him.

_____

Greg was already gone by the time they got back to their seats, which was just as well as neither of the men wanted to see him.

"I've got an idea," John said, leaning in conspiratorially.

"Do tell," Sherlock replied, his colour finally starting to go back to normal.

"I think we should flirt incessantly," John said, raising his eyebrows and trying not to smile. Sherlock made a strange sounding whine and John laughed. "With the readers," he said. "Try to show them how very much not dating we are."

Even as he said it John felt his stomach roll over. Sherlock was a genius, though, and there was no way he would be interested in an invalided army Doctor. 

Sherlock had the same feeling and consoled himself with the knowledge that he hadn't done anything wrong, that men just didn't really like him, and that was par for the course.

"Convince them we're single and not at all jealous?" Sherlock asked.

John smiled at him and held back the urge to reach out and grip his thigh. "Exactly."

_____

Greg was going over the new plans with the security team, the old plans being too simple for the predicament they were now in, what with all the women dying to meet the lovebirds, when he got a text on his mobile.

I APOLOGISE FOR CROSSING A LINE. MH

_____

Across town Mycroft was sitting at his desk thinking about all that had gone on the night before and that morning. He knew that he was hurting Greg, could tell from the way Greg never looked at him like he used to, but he wasn't sure he knew how to stop. It was best, he decided, to cut off all communication outside of work.

He opened the video window on his computer and shuffled through the different feeds until he found the one with Greg in it. It wasn't strictly legal, but Mycroft was much too smart to leave a trail that could be followed. He watched Greg pull his mobile from his pocket and open it, hoping to see longing in his face. It was a selfish hope, but it was there.

Greg sighed and ran a hand through his hair before putting his mobile back into his pocket. It was like a stab in the gut and Mycroft closed the window and sat back in his seat.

_____

Sherlock was...surprisingly good at flirting. John hadn't thought he would be and the way Sherlock fluttered his eyelashes and spoke in hushed tones had him regretting the suggestion. He could barely keep his eyes on the women he was supposed to be romancing. Multiple women, a veritable throng of women, all interested in seeing him and Sherlock interact.

"Oh, no," he heard Sherlock say, "I'm very much single. Not interested in anything long term anyhow. Dating is for fools...but perhaps I'd like to be a fool for you."

John bit the inside of his cheek and was actually relieved when one of the security team stuck his head in the door and called him out into the hall. There was a tall man in a pristine three piece suit waiting for him.

"John Watson. So good to finally meet you," the man said, his face in disagreement with his words.

"Do we know each other?" John asked, looking back over his shoulder to where Sherlock was flirting away, so very believably.

The man cleared his throat and John looked back at him. "We do, but that's not why I'm here. Like everyone else seems to be, I'm interested in your new found...delight in Sherlock Holmes. Tell me, do you often attempt to bed your readers?"

"My...wait, no. It's, well, it's a sort of bet. Have you been watching?" John asked, flustered and standing taller in response.

"I'm referring to your wooing of Sherlock Holmes, not those poor delusional women in there. You didn't know him a week ago and now you're running around on rooftops with him and he's got your," as he paused the man grimaced, "creative juices flowing quite freely. Your agent told you to get laid. I'm simply assuming you did."

"Now, hold on," John said, anger surging through him, "I'm not sure who the fuck you think you are, but you honestly need to mind your own bloody business."

John saw Greg approach out of the corner of his eye and turned to ask him to have the posh bastard removed from the center.

"Mycroft," Greg said, stopping in his tracks before moving forward.

John looked over at him and his mouth dropped open. "You're Sherlock's brother?"

"And your publisher," Mycroft said, eyes not leaving Greg's.

"Yeah, well, that goes double, then. My interest in your brother has nothing to do with you and I'd like to keep it that way," John said sternly. "Now if you wouldn't mind buggering off, I need to get back to my station."

That caught Mycroft's attention and he cocked his head to the side. "Is that any way to talk to your superior? I would have thought the military had taught you better."

"With all due respect, sir," John said, filling it with as much vitriol as was humanly possible, "you're obviously not here in a professional capacity. When you feel like acting as my boss, instead of a jealous thirteen-year-old, let me know. Until then, I'll leave you two to bicker."

With that John turned on his heel and stormed back into the room.


	10. What Did I Tell You?

Sherlock watched John stomp back into the room and tried to ignore the feeling of heat curling inside him at the sight. John was angry. John wore angry quite well.

"I'm afraid it's time I take a break," Sherlock said to the woman whose hand he'd been petting.

She frowned but nodded and watched him leave. When he moved next to John and rested a hand on his lower back she secretly took a photo on her mobile, smiling to herself.

"Let's go for a walk," Sherlock said, surprising John by holding his jacket out to him.

John nodded and walked with him out the back door to where a few of the other writers were sitting and smoking. It was still cold outside no matter the afternoon sun and John pulled his coat tight around himself and raised his shoulders.

"What happened in the hallway?" Sherlock asked, handing his scarf over.

John scoffed and shook his head, still visibly incensed. "Someone interested in our relationship."

"Everyone is interested in our relationship," Sherlock replied, face blank, "but no one has bothered you this much before."

"It was your bloody brother, okay? The man is so...so...irritating!" John finally shouted.

The other writers looked up and Sherlock moved them further away from the small crowd. John was clenching his fists and frowning and Sherlock wanted to kiss the frown away.

"My brother is a pest," Sherlock agreed in a stage whisper. "What exactly-"

Sherlock was cut off by his mobile ringing and he pulled it from his pocket, frowning at it, and answered. John watched him get in a fevered argument with the person on the other side of the line. When Sherlock finally hung up it was with a look of disgust.

"Idiots! The whole lot of them," Sherlock grumbled, stuffing his mobile back in his pocket and crossing his arms.

"Care to elaborate?" John asked, not noticing how Sherlock's behavior had relaxed him.

"This detective I'm working with. She's closed a case I was helping her with and deemed the death a suicide. It was obviously a murder. The woman has no idea how to do her job so I'm going to end up doing it! Although..." Sherlock trailed off.

John licked his lips and leaned in, his interest so piqued that he could hardly contain himself. "Although? Although what?"

Sherlock looked up at him, smiling suddenly. "Although, now that it's been closed the murderer will drop their guard. That would make it a bit easier for me to catch him."

"You're going to try to catch the killer?" John asked, in turns exasperated and aroused.

"Of course," Sherlock shot back, eyes looking out into the distance as he formulated a plan.

"Without backup?" John asked, taking yet another step forward and crowding into Sherlock's personal space.

"I'll meet him in a public place," Sherlock replied. "He may try to run but he's not stupid enough to kill me in front of a crowd."

"Shouldn't you, I don't know, tell someone?" John asked, looking over his shoulder as if the murderer himself might be listening.

"And give it all away?" Sherlock asked, eyebrows drawing together as he smiled mischievously. "Don't be stupid."

John poked him in the shoulder and they shared a bizarre moment, foreheads almost touching, where something seemed to be pulling them towards each other. Sherlock's smile went sloppy and lopsided and John's breath sped up. 

Just outside their view one of the other writers snapped a picture that could only be explained as the lead up to a kiss. The kiss didn't happen. Yet.

"I won't tell..." John began, chewing his lip before going on, "if you promise me something."

"Anything," Sherlock said, it gusting out of him and meaning more than he was willing to admit.

"Stop flirting with the readers," John said, face dropping. "It's...it's just..."

"Alright," Sherlock whispered, nodding slightly so his fringe brushed against John's forehead.

"We should go back in," John said scratching his forehead where it was being tickled but not moving away.

"We should," Sherlock agreed.

"We should," John parroted.

It took a long while for them to do so, working against the intense magnetic pull the universe had created. 

_____

They couldn't seem to stop themselves from spending the rest of the day grinning at each other. It sabotaged their plan to put the readers off the scent but they didn't seem to mind. 

At the end of the day they broke apart, standing in front of their separate hotel doors and pausing. 

John turned and scrunched his nose up. "Don't get yourself killed, yeah?"

"I've managed this long, haven't I?" Sherlock said, voice softer than he meant it to be, and wholly lacking in bite.

"Yeah, but...I know that sometimes things can get out of hand," John said, frowning and gripping his thigh.

"I'll see you in the morning," Sherlock promised.

John sighed shortly and surged forward, hand slipping underneath the front of Sherlock's coat and over his heart. Sherlock couldn't breathe. Breathing wasn't an option. His mouth hung open and he forgot where he was and if he'd been able to breathe, which he couldn't, couldn't, he would have said something embarrassing.

John pulled Sherlock's mobile out of his inner jacket pocket and went about entering his number in it. 

Sherlock remembered how to breathe. 

"If you run into trouble," John said, handing the mobile back.

Sherlock swallowed roughly and took the mobile in one shaking hand. John nodded and went into his room and Sherlock slumped against the wall.

_____

John ate his disappointing hotel delivery dinner while he worried about Sherlock. He had heard Sherlock leave a few hours before, ostensibly to go find the killer, and the man hadn't returned. He got halfway through his food and had to stop eating. He was really worried.

He checked his phone again and then turned it off and on again to make sure it hadn't malfunctioned. When there were still no messages he tossed it aside and opened his laptop. If he couldn't do anything else he could at least write up his blog. He tapped slowly at the keys then highlighted the intro and stared at it, his finger hovering over the delete button.

'Sherlock Holmes was charming today. He's always charmed me but today was something else. It was hard to see him wooing-'

He hit the delete button and tried again.

'Sherlock Holmes definitely knows how to entertain a crowd. It was all I could do today not to intervene. He looked particularly handsome today and I couldn't-'

He deleted that, too. 

Christ. All he could do was think about how wonderful Sherlock was and how much he hated other people getting his attention. He couldn't ignore it now, couldn't ignore how much he wanted Sherlock. For Christ's sake, he'd almost kissed the man in the alley behind the convention hall. For a moment he wasn't sure he'd be able to stop himself and he'd seen...he'd seen that Sherlock wanted it, too.

That was perhaps the worst part; that he knew Sherlock wanted him back but was still too much of a coward to take the leap. He'd felt the way Sherlock's heart had pounded when he reached into his jacket for his mobile. He should have kissed him there in the hallway, should have let his hand stay pressed against his chest, against the soft material that covered his skin. He should have torn Sherlock's coat and jacket off and pressed himself against the man. He should have-

Sherlock's hotel room door opened and closed with a bang. Good, he was home. Home and alive. 

John set his laptop aside and walked over to the door, listening through it. He could hear Sherlock walking and moving things around and was wondering what he was doing. That was when he heard the grunt.

Oh. Again, oh. 

John licked his lips and unbuckled his belt, eager for what was to come. He heard another grunt and the bed squeak and something fall to the floor.

'Not the only one who's eager, then,' he thought, unbuttoning his denims and pushing down the zip so he could fondle himself through his pants.

There was a louder grunt and John squeezed himself. Then there was the sound of something larger falling to the ground and the groaning of the bed and then, then there was a crack and the unmistakable sound of a lamp hitting the ground and John was moving, hitting the door with all the strength he could muster. The door swung open to show the room in disarray and Sherlock in a choke hold with a large man on top of him.

John strode over and tackled the man, knocking him off of Sherlock, and the bed, and wrestling with him on the floor. He heard Sherlock wheezing above them and head-butted the man as hard as he could. The body below him went still and he slid off, turning the now unconscious man onto his side and looking around for something to bind his hands.

"The strap off your book bag!" he shouted.

Sherlock removed the strap and brought it over, helping John to wrap it around the man's wrists. 

John heaved a deep breath and glanced up. "What did I tell you?"

Sherlock rubbed his neck and looked at the floor, ashamed. "Don't get killed. I didn't, though."

"Not for lack of trying," John replied, standing and pushing Sherlock's hand out of the way so he could examine his throat. 

"I knew you would assist," Sherlock lied, not willing to admit how much he had buggered things up.

"No you didn't," John said, brushing his fingers across Sherlock's collar bone. "Did he hurt you?"

"No, John," Sherlock replied, finally looking up.

John swallowed and nodded. "Good, that's...that's good, then. Do we get to call the police now?"

Just as John said it several police officers busted through the door. In the issuing madness John found himself out in the hall standing between an irate detective and Sherlock, hands on his hips and chest puffed out.

"This was completely out of line!" the woman shouted at Sherlock.

"He recorded the whole interaction. You'll be able to put the man away for murder. I think you owe Sherlock a thank you," John said defiantly.

"And I think you should see to your trousers," the woman shot back, eyebrows raised.

John looked down and quickly turned around, zipping up and buckling his belt. His face reddened as he remembered what he'd been doing right before busting into Sherlock's room.

"Well," he said, turning back around, "my statement still stands."

The woman huffed and crossed her arms but all that was ignored as Greg walked up, waving off the other police officers and facing the detective.

"These two are my clients," he said, not worried at all about the fact that he wasn't a lawyer, "and if you're done with them we'll be going."

"We still need to take their statements," the detective replied.

"Then hurry up with it or do it tomorrow. Your choice," Greg said.

"Fine," she said. "Eight o'clock tomorrow at the Met."

Greg nodded and motioned for the two to follow him down the hall a bit. When they were far enough away he relaxed.

"How did you know to come?" John asked.

"Mycroft has put a surveillance unit on Sherlock the second he found out the case had been closed," Greg explained.

John crossed his arms and stared daggers at Mycroft, who was hovering at the end of the hall. "Surveillance but not security. Brilliant."

"Sherlock doesn't allow security," Greg said. 

Sherlock shrugged and John sighed.

"Look...the building is full up because of the convention. I could only manage one room on this short notice and they've cordoned off both yours. Sherlock can spend the night at his brother's and-" Greg began.

"No!" Sherlock shouted angrily.

"Sherlock and I can share the room," John offered, noting how uncomfortable Sherlock was becoming.

"There's only one bed," Greg added with more foreboding a tone than John felt necessary.

Sherlock looked over at John with his eyebrows drawn together in concern and John realised he'd had about enough of Greg's presence for a bloody lifetime.

"So I'll sleep on the bloody sofa!" John shouted. "I'm tired and I really need a piss, so if you can give me the key we'll be on our way."

Greg handed the card over and pointed the way and John and Sherlock took off down the hall to find their new room.


	11. Giggles And Admissions Of Guilt

They found the room easily enough and were soon standing in it, uncomfortably close to one another. John was sure it was only uncomfortable for the fact that they should have been touching, but he didn't say so.

"I'll sleep on the..." he started, looking around the small room at the cheap red and white hearts and streamers covering it, "well, sofa, I suppose."

Sherlock shook his head and started to push the fake flower petals off the duvet. "Don't be foolish. There's more than enough room in the bed."

John felt he should protest, something in him saying it would be gentlemanly, but he was too tired. He picked up one of the paper petals and meant to mock it, instead he found himself giggling. Sherlock's low chuckle joined his and they were soon laughing loudly at their surroundings. The bloody Valentine's Day suite.

"Thank god we're alone," John said, gasping for breath. "Could you imagine what people would say if they saw us here? Surrounded by hearts!"

"Shall we have the champagne?" Sherlock asked, picking it up and fiddling with the wrapper.

"I think we shall," John said, taking the bottle from him and opening it with a pop.

Sherlock pushed a glass beneath it to catch the liquid spilling from the mouth and John filled the glass halfway before righting the bottle and waiting for the second glass. When he'd filled the second he held it up and tried to look serious.

"To a Glasgow kiss that lead to the Valentine's suite," he said.

"To putting away another murderer," Sherlock added.

They drank down their glasses and started to strip. John got down to his pants and vest and slipped under the covers, happily pouring himself another glass. Sherlock brought him an ice pack for his forehead and climbed into the bed next to him in just his pants. He felt nervous even though it was obvious John wasn't interested in...well...

"I think I'm going to have a black eye," John said, pulling him from his thoughts.

"I think you'll be fetching with one," Sherlock found himself saying.

John looked over at him and chewed his lip in an attempt not to smile and Sherlock downed his second glass. He was already feeling fuzzy around the edges and silently cursed himself for not having lunch or supper.

"I'm glad you didn't get hurt," John said, eyes on where his hands lay above the duvet. "Not sure if I would've have stopped at knocking the bloke unconscious if something had happened to you."

Sherlock nervously poured himself a third glass of champagne. "I didn't mean for him to follow me to my room. He didn't show up where I thought he'd be. Apparently he was following me."

John clutched Sherlock's hand and then let it go as if he'd been burned, closing his eyes and reaching out to turn the light off. "You've got to be more careful. Maybe take your brother up on the security he offered."

"Maybe you should just come with me instead," Sherlock said, downing the rest of his drink and laying his head on his pillow with a loud sigh. "That way I wouldn't have to deal with nameless drones and you wouldn't be bored at home."

John breathed slowly to try to tamp down the excitement roiling through him at the thought. Christ, could this really be happening? 

Sherlock turned the light next to his side of the bed off as well and lay on his back with his arms crossed, fingers digging into his own sides. They stayed like that for a long time before John cursed loudly, making Sherlock jump, and took his hand.

"That's," Sherlock said softly, "better."

John laced their fingers together and waited for his heart to stop doing those frightening little jumps. "Tell me, tell me about the case."

Sherlock did, starting at the beginning and speaking at breakneck speed. Each time he got excited he moved a bit closer, until he was wrapped around John completely, his legs holding onto one of John's and his arms tangled up around him.

"So it was obvious who had done it," Sherlock said, slurring a bit now as sleep and champagne played keep away with his diction.

"Obvious to you," John said, fingers stroking through Sherlock's curls.

"Yes, John," Sherlock murmured, sounding like he was far away.

"I think you should go to sleep," John replied, thumb brushing over the shell of Sherlock's ear and causing him to hum sleepily.

"Will you..." Sherlock tried.

John didn't respond, convinced he'd fallen asleep. He might have done but was con ions enough to finish the thought a few seconds later.

"Will you be here in the morning?" He whispered.

"Of course," John said, his chest expanding with the concerned way Sherlock spoke.

"I think that's the way it was supposed to be," Sherlock murmured against John's neck. "But don't tell."

John chuckled and kissed him softly on the head. "I won't. I won't tell."

Sherlock nuzzled against John's chest and they were soon falling asleep.

_____

Greg finished whatever he'd been texting and strode back towards the lift, nodding to Mycroft as the man slipped into it beside him.

"That was extremely well executed," Mycroft said, pressing the 'close door' button so they'd have the lift to themselves.

"I don't know what you mean," Greg said, turning away from Mycroft and missing the fact that they were going up, not down.

"Threatening my brother with a night under my roof? You knew he'd say no to it," Mycroft said, crossing his arms.

Greg cleared his throat. "They're good for each other. And now he'll have John protecting him tonight."

The lift opened onto the upper parking complex and Greg frowned, realising that once Mycroft left he'd have to ride back down to the ground floor to catch a cab.

"I think it was rather...sweet of you," Mycroft said, holding the door open and nodding for Greg to get out.

"You thought...did you say sweet?" Greg stammered, walking into the brisk air and forgetting why he was at first hesitant to do so.

"You're right about them. I think they could very much be in love," Mycroft explained.

"You forgot to fill the 'L' word with vitriol and sarcasm," Greg said, looking at Mycroft like he was smuggling explosives.

Mycroft straightened his tie and held his arm out for Greg, who took it apprehensively. "I've become aware, recently, of certain things. Things I have been denying, even to myself."

"You're starting to scare me, Myc," Greg said, getting into the waiting sedan and scooting over so that Mycroft could slide in next to him.

"You've nothing to fear from me," Mycroft said, taking a box from the seat across from them and passing it over, "I assure you."

Greg opened the box and pulled a deep red tie from it just as the car started its way down to the street. "What's this?"

"You have two options," Mycroft said, fussing with his cuff links in a rare show of nerves, "I can have my driver bring you home or...or you can put that tie on and button up your blazer and join me for dinner at my club."

"Your club?" Greg asked, confused. They'd dated for almost a year and Mycroft had never taken him to his club. It had been one of his bones of contention when they broke up; that Mycroft seemed ashamed of him. 

Mycroft cleared his throat and nodded curtly. "If you'll allow me a late dinner."

"Why?" Greg asked, suddenly very uneasy.

Mycroft looked down into his hands and explained. "Because you were right. You were always right. I didn't open up to you. I kept things from you. I didn't...I couldn't admit how I truly felt."

"Oh," Greg said, too stunned to go on.

"So, will you join me for dinner?" Mycroft asked, looking over and showing the most amount of emotion he had in the whole of the time they'd known each other.

"A date?" Greg asked, running his fingertips over the tie.

"A date," Mycroft said. "And an apology. The first of many."

Greg nodded and wrapped the tie around his neck as Mycroft tapped twice on the glass and the driver turned the car around.

"You thought I'd say no," Greg said as he realised they were now driving away from his flat.

"I did," Mycroft replied.

"Why?" Greg asked.

"Because I've been in love with you for three years and I've been too much of a coward to admit it," Mycroft said, looking out the window. "And because I've hurt you. Many times."

Greg's mouth fell open and he just stated for a moment, not sure he could believe his ears. When he could speak again it came out as a whisper. "You love me?"

Mycroft turned and looked Greg in the eyes, the lights outside lighting his face in brief intervals as they moved quickly through traffic. "I've always loved you."

Greg pushed Mycroft back against the door and climbed into his lap, seatbelt deserted, kissing him soundly on the lips and clutching his hair in both hands. Mycroft wrapped his arms around Greg's waist and let the tears that had been threatening to fall for, honestly several years, do so. 

When they finally drew apart Greg was grinning and pushing him playfully. "You arsehole! You utter arsehole! You loved me all along and you let me think I was alone in it!"

"It won't happen again," Mycroft assured him.

"And now you're taking me to your posh club for a date," Greg teased, "because you're a bloody romantic."

"That and the fact that I'd like to show you off a bit. Not often that I get to show up my peers," Mycroft added, pulling Greg back in to kiss him and then pressing a second box into his hands.

Greg opened it and shook his head.

"They'll look good on you, I think," Mycroft said, taking out a nearly matching set of cuff links and helping Greg put them on.

"Oh, Myc, you spoil me," Greg said.

"I love you," Mycroft corrected.

"Love you, too," Greg replied.


	12. Showers And Confessions

Mycroft and Greg's dinner went well and by the time they were relaxing back in their seats and sharing a cannoli Mycroft had managed to gather enough courage to clarify things.

"Will you give me another chance?" he asked, reaching across the table and taking Greg's hand.

"Of course, Myc," Greg said. 

"And," Mycroft went on, clearing his throat, "will you move in with me?"

Greg looked at him with furrowed brows. "Really?"

"I have no intention of ever giving you a reason to leave me again," Mycroft explained. "You're the only person who keeps my interest and I've been...incredibly unhappy without you. As far as I can see there are no drawbacks to cohabitation."

"Who on earth are you and what have you done with the reserved man I used to know?" Greg asked, squeezing Mycroft's hand.

"I know what kind of man I am. This has been the most difficult decision I've made in years. Sentimentality doesn't come easily to me. My own fear, and hesitation in admitting it, made me lose the only good thing in my life," Mycroft said, speaking softly but still holding up his normal guarded expression. "It only took me six months to admit that. Somewhat of a miracle, as you know."

"I think I'm going to like this new development," Greg said, a bit choked up with emotion.

Mycroft leaned forward and kissed Greg on the knuckles. "Come home with me."

Greg nodded and took one last sip of his wine.

_____

Greg woke first the next morning, his silent alarm buzzing next to him on the bed. He brushed his hand across Mycroft's back before he even realised what was going on. When he did his chest seemed to constrict and he grinned like a madman. He let his hand linger on Mycroft's skin for a moment before carefully extricating himself and turning his alarm off on the way to the loo.

When he finally returned, he found Mycroft standing nervously in front of the door. He smiled softly and squeezed his arm.

"I think I had a bit too much to drink last night," Mycroft grumbled, pushing forward and slumping against Greg.

Greg chuckled and held him close, wondering how his life could have taken such an unexpected turn. "Champagne does that sometimes. Do you want to take a quick shower before we rustle up some coffee?"

Mycroft nodded against his neck and sighed deeply. "Will you...would it be too much if..."

Greg's heart raced and he licked his lips, appreciating how slowly Mycroft was taking things. "Want me to join you?"

Mycroft nodded again and shifted where he stood.

"Alright," Greg said. 

Mycroft breathed against Greg's skin and then wiggled a bit before going to brush his teeth and down a few paracetamol. He passed a new toothbrush over to Greg, still in its wrapping, and scooted over.

"You're gorgeous," Greg said, surprising himself.

"You're still inebriated," Mycroft grumbled.

Greg grinned at him and stripped before climbing into the shower. Mycroft climbed in soon after and turned to bury his face against Greg's neck again. He breathed deeply and Greg rubbed his back.

"We should actually get clean. We don't have long before we have to be at work," he said, taking the soap and lathering up Mycroft's shoulders, hands slowly moving down. 

Mycroft almost crumpled to the floor when Greg gripped his arse with soapy hands. Greg couldn't help but squeeze him, his pert cheeks full in his hands.

"That's," Mycroft tried, voice weak.

"Too much?" Greg asked.

Mycroft shook his head. "Not enough."

"Christ," Greg said.

"You should soap up my thighs," Mycroft added. "If you'd like."

Greg gripped his arsecheeks tighter and nodded. "God, yes."

Mycroft rested his upper body against the shower wall, face against the cool marble, and rolled his hips as Greg soaped up his inner thighs and then his prick. He pressed his thighs together tightly and moaned when Greg guided his cock between them and gripped his hips. Greg pulled back and then thrust forward, groaning as his cock slipped into the tight channel created by Mycroft's thighs, before reaching around to take the man's prick in his hand.

"Oh," Mycroft murmured, the word turning into another moan as Greg's prick rubbed against the back of his bollocks.

"Jesus," Greg sputtered, "you feel good."

Mycroft grunted and wrapped his hand around Greg's on his prick. "Harder."

Greg rocked against him and chased his orgasm, kissing Mycroft's back and wrapping his arm around to rub against his nipples.

"Oh, that's, oh, God, I'm," Mycroft stuttered.

"That's it," Greg said, gripping him tighter.

Mycroft shook and started to come, his cock spurting over the shower wall as his arse clenched. When he'd finished and was happily floating he urged Greg on by crossing his legs and flexing his thigh muscles. Greg thrust hard, moving in stunted little motions and whimpering, lifting up on his toes and groaning as he started to come. It was bliss. It was unreal. It was much too early in the morning for them to not fall back into bed together.

"I think we'd really better clean up now," he said, still unwilling to move.

"Mmm," Mycroft replied. "You have to get off of me first."

"Yes, I know."

"We can't stay like this all day," Mycroft added, smiling a bit now.

"Right," Greg said, nuzzling into Mycroft's back and wrapping his arms tightly around his waist.

There was a knock at the door and Mycroft cursed, finally standing and cleaning himself as quickly as possible before jumping from the shower and answering the door in nothing but a towel. His assistant smiled at him and handed him a stack of fresh clothes from Greg's flat. He closed the door and sighed, drying himself off and bringing them into the loo.

"You aren't getting back in?" Greg asked.

"Not if I want to actually make it to work today," Mycroft said.

"Damn," Greg replied. "I was hoping it was our turn to play hooky."

Mycroft sighed and dropping the towel, climbing back into the shower. "You're a horrible influence, Gregory Lestrade."

"Mmm," Greg agreed with a smile. "And you love it, don't ya, sweetheart?"

Mycroft tried to hide his blush by pulling Greg close and kissing him silly. Unfortunately for him, or maybe not so, Greg knew him too well to have missed it.

_____

At the hotel, John woke to find Sherlock staring at him. He smiled and licked his lips.

"I have an embarrassing confession to make," Sherlock said, chewing his lip.

"Yeah?" John asked, immediately thinking it was something to do with his cock, which was pressing itself against John's side with interest.

"I have read your books," Sherlock said. 

John choked out a laugh and shook his head. "I don't know which one of us is more embarrassed."

"I'm...I'm a bit of a fan," Sherlock admitted.

"Oh, yeah? Enjoy reading about detectives falling into bed with handsome men?" John teased, running his hand over Sherlock's hip.

"I find myself enjoying the romance a bit more than I would like," Sherlock said, shrugging.

"I'll have to remember that," John said.

"Will you," Sherlock tried, stopping to clear his throat. "Will you kiss me?"

John drew back and ran his fingers into Sherlock's curls, looking him in the eye before pulling him over to press their lips together. Sherlock breathed deeply through his nose and hummed. They kissed for quite a while, enjoying the full body contact, before John drew back. Sherlock, whose eyes had fallen closed, followed his lips. 

John chuckled and pressed a thumb to Sherlock's plump bottom lip. "Come on, let's get ready to go to the Met."

Sherlock groaned and followed him to the loo, standing beside him as they brushed their teeth and then dipping back in for another kiss. "Remind me why we haven't been doing this from the beginning?"

"Because we were both grumpy bastards and you were an utter prick to me," John teased, gripping Sherlock's hips.

"Oh, right," Sherlock said, looking as if he was just remembering right then. "Remind me to apologise for that at some point."

"Apologise for that at some point," John said, grinning at him.

Sherlock ducked down and kissed him again. "I'm sorry I was a prick."

"All's forgiven," John said. "Now hop in the shower and I'll go down and fetch us clean clothes."

"Bring me the charcoal suit and a white shirt, please," Sherlock said, turning on the tap. "And my deodorant from the loo."

"Alright," John said. "I'll be back in a mo."

Sherlock slipped out of his pants and hopped into the shower, barely able to wait for John to leave before having a quick wank.


	13. Sidekick, Boyfriend, Partner, Signifigant Other

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (Protector)

After they'd dressed, Sherlock and John picked up some pastries and caught a cab the whole two hours back to London. It occurred to John while they rode that the killer had gone very far out of his way to find Sherlock.

"You told me you were going to meet the killer in public," he said, tracing his fingers over Sherlock's thigh in a calming pattern. "But you didn't say where. I guess I just assumed it was somewhere in London."

Sherlock's eyes widened and he looked out the window. He had hoped that John hadn't thought too critically about his side of the story. The move to the Valentine's Day suite had helped that along, but apparently it hadn't stuck.

"Jesus, Sherlock," John said, hands clutching his hair. "Please tell me you didn't give a killer your hotel room number."

"Of course not," Sherlock sputtered, rolling his shoulders like his suit jacket wasn't fitting right. "We were meant to meet in the lobby."

John stayed silent for a long time and Sherlock's stomach rolled uncomfortably. When John finally did speak he was using a very serious voice and Sherlock was sure that if he didn't pay close attention he would be in trouble.

"That's it. That's the last time you meet a killer on your own. That thing you said, about me coming along, it's no longer up for discussion. You obviously need someone to save you from yourself."

John had expected some kind of protest, some quick witted response or insistence that he wasn't a child. What he got instead was a lap full of consulting detective and an angry cabbie.

"Hey, none of that!" the woman shouted, rapping her fist against the divider.

Sherlock kissed John roughly for a second time before going back to his seat. The woman glared at them in the rear view mirror as John attempted to get his breath back. Both were happy when they pulled up to the kerb.

John passed her a tight wad of cash and she nodded to him as Sherlock climbed out. He was almost to the front of the met when Sherlock pulled him into an alleyway and pressed him against the wall, fingers going up to ghost over his lips.

"What was all that about?" John huffed, grinning and holding Sherlock's hips.

"You want to join me on cases," Sherlock explained. "And you were angry that I may have put myself in harm's way. Because you like me."

John chuckled and took Sherlock's hands in his. "I do."

"You want to keep me safe," Sherlock added.

"That, too," John agreed.

"You want to be my...my," Sherlock started.

He said sidekick just as John said boyfriend and both their eyes widened.

"Sidekick my arse!" John teased. "If it weren't for me you'd be in a box right now."

"I've never had a proper boyfriend," Sherlock whispered, eyes flitting back and forth between John's. 

"Is it, am I moving to fast?" John asked, swallowing roughly.

Sherlock pressed forward and wrapped himself around John, tucking his face against his neck. "No."

"Alright," John said, licking his lips and smiling. "Good."

"Do we really have to go?" Sherlock whined, not wanting to move an inch away from John.

"Mmm," John said. "Unless you want me to go away for assault."

Sherlock pulled back and looked him in the eye quite seriously. "I'd break you out."

John snorted and took his hand. "Don't say that once we get inside."

"I would, though," Sherlock said, walking with John to the front of the building and through the doors. "I know people. I've got favors."

"Hush," John said, removing his things from his pockets to go through the metal detector.

"Who's this, then?" a weaselly looking man asked, glancing up and down at John.

"This is my partner, John Watson," Sherlock said following John through the metal detector. 

"How did you manage yourself a colleague?" the man asked, crossing his arms.

"Different kind of partner," Sherlock said, taking John's hand.

The man froze before nodding clumsily and leading the way to the detective's office.

_____

"John Watson," the detective said, finally entering after they'd been there for ten minutes. "How on earth does a decorated war veteran end up tangled up in this mess with Sherlock Holmes?"

John sat a bit straighter and cleared his throat. "As you know, we had adjoining rooms. I heard a struggle and entered to find Sherlock being choked."

The woman sat at her desk and crossed her legs, cocking her head to the side. "No, I didn't mean the case. I meant the relation. As far as I can tell, you've made yourself indispensable."

"Sorry?" John asked.

"This is the first case where Sherlock hasn't left the scene screaming at my team and assaulting the ambulance staff. I reckon I should give you a medal," she added, raising her eyebrows at Sherlock.

John paused, wondering what kind of relationship the two had, and Sherlock spoke up.

"I never assaulted anyone intentionally," he said with a frown.

She ignored him and turned to John. "If you stick around I might just end up making you a special consultant."

"Ignore her, John," Sherlock said, eyes rolling. "Special consultants don't have any legal standing."

"You still have the plastic badge, though, don't you?" she asked Sherlock.

"I'm sure it melted in some fire or another," Sherlock said snidely.

"Sherlock is an important asset. Keep him safe and I'll do the same for you," the detective said, sliding over a laminated badge with John's photo, the one from his driver's license, and name on it. 

He picked it up and looked it over. "Special consultant?"

"I don't have a badge!" Sherlock said angrily.

"Yes, well, you have your own way of getting into crime scenes, don't you?" she said with a straight face.

"Do we get to leave now?" Sherlock asked, crossing his arms.

The detective gestured to the door. "By all means."

"She's not so bad," John said as they left the building.

Sherlock grumbled and caught them a cab.

_____

Greg didn't play hooky. No matter how much he wanted to spend the rest of the day in a cocoon created by his newfound happiness, he dressed and said goodbye to Mycroft and made his way to the convention center.

There was a line outside and a crowd surrounding the line, people chattering and inspecting newspapers and giggling amongst themselves. Greg took out some change and got himself the Valentine's Day issue of the local paper from the kiosk inside the convention door. He made it all of five steps before he burst out laughing.

The front page, near the bottom, held a small picture. It had been taken with a cell phone and Greg wondered if he really recognised the back of the convention hall or if all large buildings tended to look the same. Either way the photo was compelling. As was the headline.

-Excerpt from local paper-

The Look Of Love (bracketed by pink hearts)

Our local lovebirds are at it again! An anonymous source has told us that they can barely keep their hands off each other. They may have been telling readers that no amorous connection exists, but behind closed doors, and in front of fellow writers, things are heating up.

(Photo of John leaning towards Sherlock, their eyes locked and mouths open)

[inside newspaper in the entertainment section]

Not only have our boys been nearly caught canoodling on convention center property, but they've apparently scrapped their old hotel rooms and moved into the Valentine's Day suite. What goes on behind closed doors is up for speculation, but here's to hoping the champagne and bubble bath gets them in the mood. 

Will our boys ever admit to such a relationship? Will we find out why the police were on scene in their old hotel rooms? Is it too much to ask for an in photo kiss? Find out tomorrow as this steamy story unfolds.

-End of Excerpt-

Greg folded the newspaper carefully and walked down the hall, trying his best to reconstruct a straight face. When he made it to Sherlock and John's table the men were sitting next to each other, leaned in close, sipping coffee and talking under their breath. Greg snorted, couldn't help himself, and pushed the paper forward.

"Thought you might want to see this yourself," he said, noting how John's hand slipped naturally onto Sherlock's thigh as he read over the man's shoulder.

"How did they know we have the Valentine's Day suite?" John asked as he continued to read.

"Must have someone in the hotel," Greg replied, watching as Sherlock turned back to the front page to see the photo of them from the day before.

"What do you want us to do, Greg?" John asked, sitting back in his chair and very purposefully putting an arm across Sherlock's shoulders.

"Do whatever you want," Greg said. "I just wanted to let you know what their angle is."

Sherlock looked at John for a moment, nodding to the side as they apparently had a whole conversation without a single word. When John finally nodded back and sat up straight Greg braced himself.

"We would like you, as our agent, to know that we are officially in a relationship," John said.

Greg choked a bit and nodded, thinking it would be like pulling teeth to get them to admit it. "You're, I mean, you want people to know that-"

"John is my significant other, and I am his. Really, it isn't that hard to understand," Sherlock interrupted. "Even for a mind like yours."

Sherlock expected the usual dismissal from Greg and was humbled by his actual response. Greg took a step forward and squeezed his shoulder. Not a word spoken and yet, with that small move, Sherlock saw everything.


	14. A Gallon Of-

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Don't you dare finish that sentence.

Once Greg had left the room Sherlock turned to John, eyes wide. "They're back together!"

"Who's back together?" John asked, not following at all.

"Lestrade and my horrible brother! Well, he's not horrible to Lestrade. Except for the fact that it took him several years to admit he loved him. That was horrible. Unnecessary," Sherlock said, lips twitching into a smile.

"Greg and your brother? Isn't your brother his boss?" John asked.

"Yes. One of the many reasons the idiot decided not to admit his feelings. And now I'm thinking about them kissing. I need that to stop," Sherlock said, nose scrunching up.

John chuckled and leaned in, gripping the back of Sherlock's neck and whispering to him. "I think I can help you with that." He kissed Sherlock gently, his lips moving to suck Sherlock's bottom lip into his mouth. 

They didn't notice when the first of the readers walked through the door. The photo she took was destined to be on the front page.

_____

That night John asked Sherlock to go get them some takeout on their way back to the hotel. Sherlock went to a small Chinese place around the corner while John rushed into the lobby and bought four dozen roses. He jogged to the elevator and made it to their room, cleaning the fake rose petals and shit decorations and spreading real ones across the bed. The room was small, it not being the most pricey hotel in town, and it looked nearly packed with flowers by the time he was done. 

He called down to the front for another bottle of champagne and waited for Sherlock's return. God, he felt silly. He'd written about such drivel but never cared enough about someone to go to the trouble of attempting romance before. He wondered if he was doing it right. He fidgeted with the roses on the small table and took the champagne when it was brought.

"I didn't know what you wanted so I got-" Sherlock said, bursting in as John was just settling onto the bed. His eyes grew wide as he looked around the room. "What have you...why..."

"Romance?" John asked taking the bags from Sherlock's hands and setting them on the table. "I can, um, get rid of it all if-"

Sherlock knocked him onto the bed, kissing his neck and tearing at his clothes. John moaned and huffed out a laugh, allowing Sherlock to start unbuttoning his shirt for him.

"Right. So...good?" he asked, growing hard in his pants as Sherlock squirmed around on top of him.

"Shut up and continue to romance me, John," Sherlock said, his voice cracking and giving away a lot more emotion than his words did.

John flipped them over and started on Sherlock's trousers. "Alright, pushy. You want romance? I'll give you romance. I'm bloody frightened by how easily I've fallen in love with you. You make me feel alive. That day on the rooftop felt like I was a teenager, falling in love for the first time. I want to hold you, and protect you, and devour you and I can't quite breathe enough when you're in the room."

Sherlock was shaking and watching John with wide eyes as he was stripped down to his pants.

"You make me feel useful," John continued, "and you look at me sometimes like you don't know what to say. I want you to say it. Say all of it. I want you to tell me every thought in that brilliant mind of yours. I never want to stop hearing you talk."

Sherlock whimpered and swallowed roughly as John tossed his own clothes aside and climbed atop him, leaning down and kissing his neck and ears. It was overwhelming. Breathing was once again almost impossible but this time they were doing this, this time it wasn't a misinterpreted touch, this time John admitted that he wanted him.

"Tell me what you need," John said, reaching between them and stroking Sherlock's cock, its interest filling it out and causing it to press firmly to John's stomach.

"Can we..." Sherlock tried, shifting his hips as petals stuck to his bare skin.

"Tell me," John murmured. "Anything. Anything."

"I don't, I haven't got any condoms, I didn't think, I never thought," Sherlock sputtered, eyes falling closed as he thrust his hips.

"I've got condoms, and lube," John said. "I want whatever you want. I, um, I like it both ways. If you just want this, want my hand, that's-"

"I need you inside me," Sherlock whimpered, fingers scratching at John's shoulders.

"Fuck," John huffed, head falling to Sherlock's chest. "Yeah. Yeah, yes. I'll just..." 

He scrambled off the bed and Sherlock stood on shaking legs and pulled the duvet down. John giggled when he turned around and found Sherlock picking rose petals off his arse. Sherlock gave him a withering look and John knelt behind him.

"Your gorgeous arse. Covered in rose petals. It's like a bloody dream," he said, gripping Sherlock's arsecheeks and pulling them apart. "Gorgeous. Fucking gorgeous."

Sherlock blushed and rolled his hips. John pulled off the rest of the petals on his arse and back before tossing the condoms and lube onto the pillow and pulling him down for one last kiss. Sherlock followed him onto the bed and rested on his side, back to John, clutching a pillow to his chest.

"Like this?" John asked, running a hand up and down Sherlock's thigh.

Sherlock nodded and John pushed his right knee up, gripping his bollocks gently before opening the bottle of lube. Sherlock shivered at the first touch of John's finger to his arsehole. 

"Have you ever," John tried, rubbing in circles and sighing at how easily Sherlock opened for him.

"Only a few times with a, with a, with another person," Sherlock admitted, holding onto his knee and pressing his arse back as John's forefinger pushed into him. "Lots of times by myself."

John kissed Sherlock's shoulder and started to move his finger, pumping it in and out before adding another. 

"Christ, I can't wait to be inside you," he said, squeezing his cock with his free hand to relieve some of the pressure.

"Please," Sherlock whined, pushing backwards.

John added a third finger and twisted his hand, stretching Sherlock and slipping in and out easily. "Alright, alright."

Sherlock whimpered when John pulled his fingers out, arsehole clenching around nothing, and John soothed him with his free hand before rolling on the condom and slicking up his aching prick with a generous amount of lube.

"Keep your leg up," John said holding his prick by the base and pressing slowly against Sherlock's hole. "That's it."

"Oh," Sherlock bit out as John slowly sank into him.

"Perfect," John said, pulling Sherlock's leg down and over his hip as he started to move.

Sherlock was tight around him but John moved easily, thrusting in slow, smooth motions as Sherlock moaned and gripped his own cock. He held Sherlock's hip and kissed the back of his neck. It was overwhelming and he had to stop several times to keep from coming too soon.

"John, I'm, I'm close," Sherlock panted, several minutes later, hand moving quickly on his cock.

John pulled him closer, Sherlock ending up nearly on top of him, and started to thrust hard and deep. They were both gritting their teeth and Sherlock cried out and started to come, his arsehole spasming around John's cock.

"Jesus, yes, yes," John grunted, fucking up into Sherlock as the man grew boneless on top of him. 

It only took several more thrusts before John was shouting Sherlock's name and emptying into the condom. He kissed Sherlock's neck as the aftershocks rolled through him and then turned them back onto their sides. He was hesitant to pull out, the heat of Sherlock's arse still quivering around him. Sherlock must have noticed.

"Stay," he whispered, voice soft. "Like this."

John curled around him and kissed his neck and shoulders and Sherlock threaded their fingers together, not caring about the drying lube. They lay like that for ten or so minutes until Sherlock's stomach growled and he grumbled.

"We forgot all about dinner," John said, kissing him again and starting to pull away.

"Shower first, I think. I feel like you used a gallon of lube," Sherlock said, sighing as John's cock slipped out.

"Yeah, well, we should get tested and then I can fill you with a gallon of-" John teased.

Sherlock slapped him and started to laugh. "Don't you dare finish that sentence!"

John laughed too and they melted back into an embrace, John kissing Sherlock gently, pulling at his bottom lip with his teeth. 

"You're disgusting," Sherlock said, leaning back and grinning.

John held him close and grinned back. "You bring out the best in me. Now, come on, let's get you clean."

They finally climbed from bed and made their way to the shower, John pinching Sherlock's bum several times on the way and then gripping it when the man bent over to turn on the taps.

"I think I might just become obsessed with your arse. It's bloody perfect," John said, tossing his condom in the bin and hopping into the shower behind Sherlock. He picked up the small bar of soap and lathered up a flannel, running it over Sherlock's chest and arms as the man let his head loll back and closed his eyes.

"You're going to spoil me," Sherlock said. "Soon I'll forget how to clean myself altogether."

"Shame," John said, scrubbing Sherlock's underarms and the come from his stomach.

"John," Sherlock said, his voice soft and somewhat uncertain.

John looked up, his stomach clenching nervously.

"I love you, too," Sherlock whispered.

"Yeah?" John asked, smiling and chewing his lip.

"Mmm," Sherlock replied, holding onto John's waist.

"Well good, cause you're stuck with me," John said, feeling like he could bloody cry with happiness. "Turn around."

Sherlock hummed and leaned against the shower wall as John pulled his arsecheeks apart and let the spray from the shower head hit between them. He cleaned Sherlock thoroughly, taking time to inspect him for tenderness, and then scrubbed up his back before turning him around.

"Dinner, beautiful?"

Sherlock leaned down and kissed him and John turned off the tap, reaching out of the shower for two fluffy towels. Soon enough they were dry and Sherlock was walking out of the loo in the nude as John put on a robe.

"You going to dress?" John asked.

Sherlock went to the table and started to fish utensils out of the takeaway bags. "And deprive you of the sight of my arse? How cruel do you think I am?"

John walked up behind him and took two handfuls of his bum, resting his face against Sherlock's back and humming happily.


	15. Mr Holmes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Can't tell.

Greg said goodbye to the security guards and pulled on his jacket, the sky already dark outside his office. The mild weather from the week prior was completely gone, leaving London ensconced in clouds and the near constant threat of rain. He wrapped his scarf tightly around his neck and tucked the ends into the collar of his jacket before walking out onto the street. 

Leaning against the wall to his left, wholly obscured by shadows, Mycroft held his umbrella and watched him exit and stand on the curb checking his mobile. Mycroft tapped out a message, his phone on silent as always, and sent it.

DINNER? MH

Greg chuckled and sent a response. 

WILL YOU PICK ME UP?

I'M SURE THAT CAN BE ARRANGED. MH

Greg chewed on his lip, still amazed that things were going so well with Mycroft, and replied.

I'M STILL AT WORK.

Mycroft had been enjoying the little game they were playing, with Greg not realising it was a game, but pushed it aside as the sky cracked loudly and heavy rain started to pour. He was at Greg's side with his umbrella open before the man could retreat to the overhang.

"You prick!" Greg laughed, standing awkwardly as he wasn't sure how much affection was allowed in front of their place of work. 

"I thought you'd see me as a knight in shining armour," Mycroft said, face blank as it always was in rest.

"Waiting for me to beg to be rescued?" Greg teased.

"Making sure the rescue would be viewed kindly," Mycroft corrected.

Greg looked over his shoulder at a group of people leaving the office and Mycroft stiffened, wondering, not for the first time, if Greg might be a bit ashamed of him.

"Anyone you know?" he asked, his voice not giving away a thing.

Greg turned around and shook his head, surprising Mycroft by linking their arms and moving them to the kerb. "Is your car lurking as well?"

Mycroft looked to his left and the black sedan that the company had given him roared to life, headlights flicking on. 

Greg laughed and cleared his throat. "We should walk. It's not torrential yet."

Mycroft raised his left eyebrow and Greg leaned closer. 

"Two gentlemen out enjoying the rain," Greg said, "that's all."

"If I were ever to attempt such lunacy, it would be in your company," Mycroft conceded, lifting his hand to his driver and nodding as the car drove off.

They started walking towards Mycroft's posh flat, the tail lights of his sedan growing smaller in the distance, and Greg rested his head on Mycroft's shoulder. 

"They're finally together," Greg said. "Officially and all that."

Mycroft's steps faltered slightly. "My brother, he's happy?"

"Stupidly so," Greg replied.

"And yourself," Mycroft went on, happy to have the excuse, flimsy as it was, "you're happy?"

Greg stopped walking and Mycroft turned to him, the light from a cafe across the street making his eyes appear incredibly pale. They stood looking at each other for a while, Greg really just blown away that Mycroft would ask such a thing, that he was interested in his happiness.

"Stupidly so," Greg whispered.

Mycroft drew in a small breath and nodded before going back to his original place at Greg's side and starting back down the street.

"Shall I have some people gather your things from your flat?" Mycroft asked a few moments later.

"You haven't already?" Greg asked, teasing.

Mycroft shrugged so minutely no one who wasn't currently touching him would have noticed. "You've brought up my issues surrounding consent twice. I'm simply doing my duty to make sure we're on the same page."

Greg smiled to himself. "You can move them. Donate the stuff from the kitchen."

"We could put it in storage," Mycroft said.

Greg shook his head. "Toss it. I've made my mind up. The bed and the sofa, too."

Mycroft's steps faltered once more and Greg smiled at being able to surprise the man. It was quite a feat.

"You're sure?" Mycroft asked.

Greg nodded. "You told me you wouldn't give me a reason to leave. I'm taking you at your word."

It was then that Mycroft knew he needed to get his affairs in order and find a suitable wedding ring. Soon.

_____

By the time they made it home, stopping at a small bistro to pick up food and phoning Anthea, or whatever her name was that week, to bring over Greg's belongings, they were both close to starving. Mycroft helped Greg out of his outerwear and knelt to unlace his shoes for him.

"You'll be comfortable here," Mycroft said. "We can make changes if you like."

Greg let Mycroft slip his shoes off and pulled him up for a quick kiss. "I could use a bourbon."

Mycroft nodded and went to make them up drinks as Greg rose from his seat and started in on a fire.

"Would you like help?" Mycroft asked from the kitchen, watching Greg carefully.

"I was a scout," Greg said, arranging the logs and finding kindling. 

Mycroft came back into the room with a drinks tray and set it on the low coffee table. "As was I."

"You were a scout?" Greg asked, looking over his shoulder in surprise.

Mycroft picked up his drink and sat back on the sofa to remove his shoes. "Please tell me you aren't imagining me in those awful short pants."

"I am now," Greg said, grinning.

"Oh, for heaven's sake," Mycroft huffed, standing and turning on a record as Greg chuckled and lit the fire.

"I suppose it never occurred to me to imagine you in anything besides a suit," Greg admitted, "or the nude."

"I wasn't pulled from some pod fully formed, you know," Mycroft said, opening up the food and setting out utensils. "I have a past, just like you."

Greg stood and went to him, pulling him upright and looking him in the eyes. He pressed his lips to Mycroft's and wrapped his arms around him, fingers slipping below his waistband. Mycroft kissed him back, losing himself in it completely. When Greg pulled away he breathed deeply and tried to center himself.

"I'm hungry," Greg said, removing is coat jacket and rolling his sleeves up.

Mycroft removed his jacket as well, hanging it carefully in the closet next to the front door, and sat across from Greg. They passed the food back and forth and listened to music, letting the long day, in fact, year, ease from them. The drink probably helped with it as well.

By the time Mycroft was pulling open the small dessert box Greg's socked feet were resting atop his and both their ties had managed to loosen. Mycroft watched Greg silently, loving the way the soft light from the small lamp in the corner joined with the firelight and bourbon to soften Greg's eyes. The man was beautiful like that, relaxed and sated, left side of his upper lip raising to show a bit too much teeth. 

He found it regrettable that Greg didn't have occasion to smile so openly and wondered if that would change now that things between them had been sorted out. Every time he'd gone to Greg's flat since they broke up had been painful for both of them and perhaps he had simply become used to a look of disappointment from the man that was situational. Perhaps now Greg would smile when they were home. 

"You're staring," Greg said, taking the box from Mycroft's hand and looking inside.

"Is that a request to desist?" Mycroft asked, his voice coming out a bit tighter than he would have liked.

"Not in the least," Greg said, licking his lips, and smiling wider.

"I want to marry you," Mycroft replied.

Greg paused, holding a cream filled chocolate to his mouth.

"That's not a proposal," Mycroft added. "I just wanted to make it clear. It wouldn't be right to have you think anything less. I'm not interested in casual."

Greg put the chocolate in his mouth and sat back in his seat, chewing it. 

"If that's a problem," Mycroft tried, pulling his tie over his head and laying it across the arm of his chair.

"Not a problem," Greg interrupted. "Just imagining you in a tux."

"Oh?" Mycroft asked, eyebrows raised.

Greg sucked the chocolate from his fingers and nodded. "Oh, indeed."

"The thought..." Mycroft paused, "appeals to you."

Greg hummed and nodded, getting from his seat and stepping around the table to settle in Mycroft's lap. He ran his fingers through Mycroft's hair until the man let his head fall back and closed his eyes, then pushed his braces down his shoulders and started to unbutton his shirt.

"Would I take your last name," Greg asked, ducking down to kiss the hollow of Mycroft's neck, "or would we hyphenate?"

"Gregory," Mycroft rumbled.

"Greg Holmes. Gregory Holmes. Greg Lestrade-Holmes. Mr Holmes-Lestrade."

As Greg spoke he kissed Mycroft neck and unbuttoned his shirt, tongue soothing where his teeth were too eager. Mycroft gripped Greg's waist and tried to remember to breathe, his first instinct to stay completely still so he could remember every touch.

"Whatever you would like," Mycroft whispered huskily.

"I think I'd rather like being a Holmes," Greg said, "you lot could get away with murder."

Mycroft smiled smugly and Greg caught his lips in an unexpected kiss. When he pulled back to slide to his knees at Mycroft's feet Mycroft looked down at him in surprise. Greg licked his lips and started on Mycroft's trousers, making it quite obvious what he intended to do.

"You don't have to-" Mycroft tried, his head feeling a bit dizzy at the thought of Greg's lips around his cock, at the memory of them doing it the first time in his office and trying to keep quiet.

"I know," Greg said, pulling Mycroft's trousers down his thighs and leaning forward to tongue at his prick through silk pants. 

Mycroft moaned and clutched at the arms of the chair, eyes falling closed again as Greg reached into his pants and pulled his cock out. 

Greg licked the head and looked back up at him. "I'm going to suck you and then you're going to finish in my arse."

Mycroft choked on his own saliva and whimpered as Greg took him between his lips and sucked. It was overwhelming, Greg's tongue pushing and prodding at his foreskin before laving at the slit. Greg was ridiculously confident in his ability to suck a bloke off and that had frightened Mycroft in the beginning. Not because he wanted Greg to be a virgin, but because he himself wasn't nearly as confident, no matter how public school he was.

Now he was simply in awe of that particular specialty. It felt different every time. He was never anything but greedy for Greg's mouth and time had shown him that wouldn't change.

Greg sucked roughly and pressed down, Mycroft's auburn pubic hair tickling his nose, as the head of Mycroft's prick butted up against the opening to his throat. He swallowed and suppressed his gag reflex and savoured the fact that Mycroft would soon be falling apart. 

It never took long unless Greg meant it to, and this time he didn't hold back, pushing Mycroft to the edge several times in short minutes before pulling off.

"Condoms," he said, "and lube."

Mycroft sucked in a shaky breath and shook his head to clear his thoughts. "Behind you. The left drawer."

Greg pulled the drawer open and tossed a condom at Mycroft, letting the man put it on himself, before finally pulling his trousers and pants off and chucking them to the side. He got back into Mycroft's lap and opened the bottle of lube, slicking up two of his fingers and burying them in himself without fanfare. His body opened immediately, aching to be filled, and he slumped against Mycroft's chest.

"Christ," he grumbled, rolling his hips and fucking himself on his own fingers.

Mycroft let his hands slip below Greg's shirt and rub up and down his back, sneaking down every once in a while to pull his arsecheeks apart before scratching up his back again. Greg let him, hissing when fingernails pulled at his skin, and slowly added a third finger. 

Mycroft was long, but not particularly thick, and Greg had always wondered at how easy it was to prepare himself for him. When Mycroft did it the man spent too much time watching his fingers disappear into Greg's arse and Greg had to shout at him to move it along. There were perhaps three times, on the rarest mornings, that Greg had let him do as he pleased and ended up coming all over the sheets before Mycroft had even entered him. It never seemed to worry the man to have to finish in his own hand, as it gave him the opportunity to paint Greg's back with his come, but this time even Mycroft was eager to be buried in him.

"Fancy handkerchief?" Greg asked, holding a hand up.

Mycroft pulled one from his pocket, his face pressing against Greg's chest as he had to reach almost to his calf to do so, and placed it in Greg's hand. There was a sigh as Greg removed his fingers and Mycroft yelped when his cock was covered in lube that didn't have the courtesy of warmth.

Greg cleaned his hand off on the handkerchief and braced himself as Mycroft held his cock straight up for him. He sank down, fingers digging into the back of the chair, and let a loud moan tumble out. 

Mycroft held his hips and started to thrust, his prick tingling at finally having something back around it after minutes of waiting. He met every movement of Greg's and they were soon rocking against each other perfectly. 

Greg kissed him and Mycroft growled and fucked up into him at a quicker pace. It was difficult to stay on the precipice when he wanted to chase his orgasm so badly.

"Fuck me," Greg whispered into his ear. 

Mycroft lost all restraint, bucking wildly, his perfectly coiffed hair finally beyond repair and sweat beading on his forehead. He felt Greg take hold of his cock with one hand, the other arm resting behind his neck on the back of the chair, just before Greg's arse tightened around him. 

It was a tease.

Greg was a bastard when he wanted something, but, God, was he good at it. He tightened again and Mycroft started to shake, gritting his teeth and clenching his eyes closed as Greg gave and then took away exactly what he needed.

"Do it," Greg said, whispering in his ear again. "Come on, do it."

Mycroft felt a strange fuzziness in his head that told him he'd been holding his breath and took in one wheezing lungful just as he started to come. Electricity, or oxygen deprivation, crackled around him as he pulsed into the condom.

Greg laughed and rode him, pumping his cock in his fist and wrapping the soft material of Mycroft's handkerchief around the head of his prick just as he started to come. 

When he finally pulled away the whole left side of his face was imprinted with the pattern of the high-backed chair. Mycroft smiled and ran his fingers over the swirling pattern and Greg leaned down to kiss him.

"Holmes," Greg said, drawing back and grinning. "I guess I'll have to practice writing it."


	16. Wedding Bells

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here's our last chapter, folks. Loved having you along for the ride and hope to see you at the next one!

The next day the picture of Sherlock and John kissing appeared in the newspaper. John's blog the same day announced their new relationship. They were assaulted with a throng of admirers for the rest of the convention but they secretly didn't mind.

Four months into their relationship John told Sherlock something Sherlock thought he'd never hear.

"You should stop writing," he said as they were laying in a post coital haze, in the bed they now shared at 221b Baker Street.

Sherlock turned to him and frowned. "I'm not that bad, am I?"

"No, love," John said, rolling onto his side and wrapping an arm around Sherlock's waist. "What I meant was that you shouldn't have to keep writing just because your brother insists on it. You hate it."

"Mmm," Sherlock conceded. "I do."

"So...have you thought about charging for your cases?" John asked.

Sherlock thought on it. They'd been getting a lot more cases due to the success of John's blog. Most were hardly worth reading the emails for but there were quite a few that were at least sevens. 

"We've had no problem living on the high profile ones that have come along, and my advance has picked up the slack but I think it would be worth looking into," John added. "If just to get your brother off your back."

John's new book was coming along well and the buzz surrounding his blog and the fact that it had been leaked (Greg really was a marketing genius, no matter how underhanded it might be.) that the new book would include a gay couple was upping his readership substantially. They were comfortable. They could also do with the extra income if they wanted to start any type of savings.

"I...don't ever want to write another book in my life," Sherlock said, throwing himself dramatically on top of John and breathing against his neck.

"I thought not," John said, chuckling and rubbing Sherlock's back.

So it was decided.

_____

The high profile cases kept coming and soon they'd put together quite a nest egg. Mycroft admitted that they were better off with Sherlock's newfound form of success and secretly delighted in the fact that Sherlock had finally, finally, found his way in the world. He hadn't meant for Sherlock to continue to write, after all, but rather knew his disdain for it would be the catalyst for greater things.

_____

It took Mycroft a good six months to convince himself that Greg wasn't leaving. Greg gave him that time and was happy with their relationship. Mycroft wasn't exactly forthcoming with his emotions in a physical way but he noted his affection in a utilitarian fashion and that was enough. 

Greg always felt especially close to him after sex, when Mycroft would let his guard down and allow Greg to hold him. He was fine with it, really, because he knew no one else got to see that side of Mycroft, was sure no one else ever had.

Things changed slowly. Mycroft became more comfortable leaning against Greg while they watched the telly, slipping his hand in Greg's as they walked home. Greg didn't see it happening as it was so gradual. 

One night it hit him.

He made it home after Mycroft and found him in the kitchen cooking. He left his coat by the door and changed into his pyjamas before joining Mycroft in the kitchen.

"Smells wonderful," he said, standing behind Mycroft and wrapping his arms around his waist.

Mycroft hummed and started plating up the food. "How was work?" 

"John put out his new book. You wouldn't believe how many women are interested in gay sex," Greg said. "My phone was ringing off the hook."

Mycroft brought supper to the table and Greg opened a bottle of wine and joined him.

"I'm sure you handled it well," Mycroft said, taking a bite of his salad and sitting back in his seat, socked feet settling between Greg's.

He seemed to always want to be touching Greg now and it was a refreshing development. Greg looked up and Mycroft was smiling at him. Smiling openly. It was so different from Mycroft's usually guarded face that it took a moment for Greg to figure out what was happening. 

"You're handsome when you're frustrated," Mycroft said, relaxing back in his seat and continuing to smile.

"You're smiling at me," Greg said, eyebrows knit.

Mycroft shrugged and looked as if he really didn't care. "So I am."

"You don't usually smile at anything," Greg added.

"I find myself wanting to smile as of late," Mycroft replied. "Each time I think of you. Seems I can't stop it anymore."

Greg's chest swelled and he had to swallow roughly.

Mycroft reached for his hand. "What thought has you so choked up?"

Greg huffed out a breath and cleared his throat. "When you smile I fall apart."

Mycroft smiled wider and blushed, looking down.

"Marry me," Greg said. "Tomorrow. Next week. I can't wait."

Mycroft looked up at him, eyebrows furrowed.

"You knock me out," Greg said. "I fall apart. I just, I fall apart."

_____

To Greg's surprise Mycroft agreed to an extremely low key wedding. They left for the courthouse at lunch the next day, Mycroft coming down from the top floor and standing in the doorway. When Greg said he was off and went to take Mycroft's hand the whole room looked on in awe. Sally, Greg's coworker, sat in shock for a good ten minutes before taking her own lunch break.

They exchanged rings Mycroft had been saving for six months, thanked the judge and were done. It was official. 

When they got back to work, as married men, Mycroft kissed Greg on the cheek at his desk and disappeared to the lift. Sally stood and charged over to Greg's desk.

"What the bloody hell is going on?" she demanded under her breath. "I just saw Mycroft Holmes kiss you on the cheek. Are you two fucking?"

Greg held his left hand up, wriggling his fingers and not looking away from the computer screen. By the end of the work day the news had got around the office and when Greg and Mycroft attempted to leave Sally stopped them.

"Nope. We're going out for a pint to celebrate you two getting hitched," she said, the whole room exploding with applause.

The group made their way to the pub down the street, singing loudly and substituting 'for he's a jolly good fellow' with the somewhat clumsy 'for they're some jolly good fellows'.

Greg and Mycroft sat at a large table with the group and everyone ordered grease laden food and an impressive amount of lager. Mycroft sipped his beer and scrunched his nose up, Greg chuckling at his side.

Three hours later Sally and the group were properly sloshed and she was sitting in Greg's lap, arm tight around his neck and forehead pressed to his.

"You're married," she said, slurring her words and grinning. "To that prick."

Greg laughed and she ruffled his hair.

"The tab is on Greg tonight," she shouted, "cause he married into money!"

Everyone cheered and Mycroft rolled his eyes.

Sally stood from Greg's lap and raised her hands in the air. "And I'm never paying for drinks ever again!" The group cheered louder as she made her way to Mycroft's side. "I thought you were a prick, gov! He's happy, though so I guess you aren't all bad. You fuck with him and I'll kick you're arse." She punctuated the thought with a wet kiss to Mycroft's cheek, frowning once she realised what she'd done and taking a long sip of the lager Mycroft hadn't finished.

Mycroft dabbed at his cheek with his napkin and Greg nearly fell from his chair laughing.

When they made it home that night Mycroft had to undress Greg because he was so drunk, settling him in bed and getting in next to him.

"My friends like you," Greg said, grinning.

Mycroft kissed him on the forehead and pulled him close.

"I love you," Greg said, already sounding like he was falling asleep.

"I love you, too," Mycroft said, nuzzling his neck. "Even if your friends are a bit off."

Greg chuckled and wiggled a little, replying in a sing-song voice. "They like you. They like you."

"You're drunk," Mycroft murmured.

Greg giggled and rolled his hips back into Mycroft's groin. "An' you wanna fuck me."

Mycroft hummed against his neck and Greg giggled more.

"C'mon, gov," Greg teased. "Do what you will."

"Gregory," Mycroft warned.

"Let's consummate this marriage thing," Greg said, pushing back again and wriggling out of his pants.

"I can't argue with that," Mycroft said, reaching to the bedside table for the lube and re-situating Greg on his hands and knees.

Greg sighed as Mycroft pressed two wet fingers into his already relaxed arsehole. Mycroft didn't waste time opening him up, honestly worried Greg might fall asleep. Greg whined when Mycroft removed his finger but was soon moaning.

Mycroft bent over him and filled him slowly, reaching up to thread their fingers together.

"Fuck," Greg grunted, "fucking yes. Oh, God, harder."

Mycroft buried himself deep and then pulled out, snapping his hips like he knew Greg needed. 

They soon dissolved into loud moans and curses and Mycroft let one of Greg's hands go to stroke his cock, not letting himself come until Greg was screaming out and twitching. He arched his back and thrust in hard movements, knocking Greg forward and coming for what felt like an eternity, his thumb rubbing over Greg's wedding ring.

They collapsed to the side and Greg's started to giggle again. "You ruined my arse."

"Are you hurt?" Mycroft asked, pulling out slowly.

"Just enough," Greg snorted.

"Will you get up so I can change the sheets?" Mycroft asked, rubbing up and down his back.

Greg was already asleep. Mycroft smiled softly and went to get a flannel wet to clean him up a bit. Greg whined and pulled him into an embrace once he was back in bed and Mycroft fell asleep in his arms.

_____

 

"You might as well have eloped," Mummy complained over the phone a month later.

"You'll live through it," Mycroft said flatly.

"I'm not sure I will," Mummy complained. "Your father wants to speak to you."

He heard his father take the phone and walk from the room, closing a door behind him. "Congratulations," the man said, a smile evident in his voice. "That's what she meant to say. When do we get to meet your man?"

"We'll be home tomorrow. Perhaps we can have dinner next week."

"I'm so very glad for you," Mycroft's father said. "I always knew you'd find someone."

Mycroft was overwhelmed with emotion, remembering so many years where he didn't believe that himself. "Thank you, daddy," he said, embarrassed by slipping into a childish manner of speaking.

"Pretend I scolded you, will you?" his father said, whispering into the phone. "She can't know."

"Of course," Mycroft replied, brushing tears from his eyes.

His father cleared his throat. "I'll let you go now. Get back to it."

"Yes. Speak with you soon."

_____

The family loved Greg. It was to be expected; Greg was a remarkably agreeable man. Mummy fussed over him and Mycroft tried to ignore it, hiding his disdain for the woman well. At least, he thought.

"When did you and your mother have a falling out?" Greg asked one week later as they lay in their bed reading after a long day of work.

"I'm sorry?" Mycroft sputtered.

Greg continued to look at his book, thinking it best to give Mycroft the comfort of not being watched. "You didn't trust me in the room alone with her."

"I don't-" Mycroft tried.

"My father was a real bastard," Greg interrupted. "Used to beat the crap out of me."

It was the first time he ever told anyone. Mycroft was silent for a long time and Greg thought he wasn't going to explain. It was alright if he didn't want to, he wouldn't pry.

"She blames me for Sherlock's first overdose," Mycroft said. "Thinks I should have taken better care of him."

Greg let his hand fall to Mycroft's thigh and squeezed it gently.

"She was always a domineering woman. My father is afraid of her," Mycroft continued. "She still treats Sherlock and I like children."

Mycroft felt lighter for the admission and turned the light off on his side of the bed, setting his book aside and shifting to lay his head in Greg's lap. Greg ran his fingers through his hair and didn't say a word. Mycroft loved him for that.

_____

TWO YEARS LATER

_____

Sherlock lay in the hospital bed with his eyes closed, heart monitor beeping out a healthy rhythm as the oxygen was pumped into his lungs.

"I need to see him," John said, tears welling in his eyes. "He's my partner. I was there when he was shot! God, I need to see him!"

The nurse calmly explained that unless he was family she couldn't let him back for another day or so. 

They were the longest two days of John's life. He took to sitting outside Sherlock's room drinking the shit coffee they had for free at the front and taking quick looks into the room when no one was within view.

Sherlock finally woke up on the third day and John was able to go see him.

"It hurts," Sherlock wheezed, his voice rough from the intubation.

"That's because you took off around the corner and got yourself shot, bloody long legs of yours," John said, feeding Sherlock an ice chip.

Sherlock hummed and sucked on it and John willed himself not to cry.

"They wouldn't let me in to see you for two days," he explained. "And I have to remedy that."

Sherlock squinted at him as he knelt next to the hospital bed awkwardly. Sherlock could barely see what he was doing and winced as he tried to crane his neck.

"Oh, bloody hell," John grumbled, standing again. "See, you got shot and now I've got to break tradition."

He said it with little heat, eyes tearing up and hands shaking.

"John," Sherlock wheezed.

"Sherlock Holmes," John started. "I won't wait outside a hospital room ever again." He held out a small box and opened it to reveal a simple gold band. "If you say yes."

Sherlock nodded and winced and John leaned down to kiss him.

"I missed you, you fool," he whispered, sniffling in Sherlock's ear. "God, I missed you."

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Writer's Block](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6089052) by [Megabat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Megabat/pseuds/Megabat)




End file.
